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SENORITA INEZ. page I I I 


MEMOIRS 


OF A 

COW PONY 

AS TOLD BY HIMSELF. 


ILLUSTRATED 


BY 

JOHN H. BURNS 


^ > 

) > -» 

> > ’ 


BOSTON 

EASTERN PUBLISHING CO. 


LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Cooios Recotved 

JUL 23 1906 

bvngio Entry ^ 

% fqoQ 

ZVh%%fOu* XXc.No. 

3 6 / 

COPY B. 



COPYRIGHTED, I906 
BY JOHN H. BURNS 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 


• « 



) 


TO GALLANT COW HORSE 
AND HIS KNIGHTLY RIDER, 
VANISHING TYPES OF A PICTURESQUE 
AND STRENUOUS LIFE, 

THIS VOLUME IS 
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED. 



CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER. PAGE. 

I . Early Recollections 7 

II. Old Baldy’s Advice 17 

III. Death of Mexican Pete 29 

IV. How Buck Became, a Cow Pony 41 

V. One Awful Night 51 

VI. Addios, Granny 56 

VII. Ave Maria 90 

VIII. He Was a Girl loi 

IX. Senorita Inez iii 

X. Anybody’s Pony 142 

XL A Faithful Dog 155 


XH. How Wolfer Sam Painted Deadwood Red 169 


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CHAPTER I. 

Early Recollections. 

I am just a common yellow cow pony. 
Since I was four years old I have been a sad- 
dler on the ranges of Texas, and the trails 
over which the vast herds of long-horned 
Texas and Mexican cattle are moved to the 
ranges of the Dakotas, Montana and Wyom- 
ing. I am now owned by the TU brand ; at 
least that is the last brand which lias been 
burned on my hide. 


7 


8 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


My present master — and I want to say here 
that a kinder one I have never had — tells me 
that I have earned my retirement. By that, 
1 guess he means I am not to be called upon 
to do much more hard work. 

Many times my master has told me that 
if I would just give to the public my exper- 
iences in life, and my observations of ponies 
and men, it would be of great interest, and 
might be of benefit to ponykind, but I would 
answer to him that I had neither seen nor 
done anything worth recording. 

“Just tell, Buck,” he said, “from your pony 
viewpoint, what a cow pony and a cow boy 
should be, and how the former should be 
broken to work, also how he should be treat- 
ed thereafter. Thus you may dp to pony- 
kind a great service.” 

I hesitated. There are incidents — one at 
least — in my life which I shrank from even 
thinking of, and to relate it to the world, I 
had not the courage. 

Finally, one black night when I was car- 
rying my master out of the Hay Creek 
brakes, he asked me again, and I yielded. 

The moaning of the wind in the tops of 
the ragged, stunted pines told that a storm 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


9 


was coming, and we hurried to reach level 
ground, but the double darkness of a stormy 
night smote us full in the face. 

While we were still in the brakes, the trail, 
none too plain at the best, wound around the 
heads of yawning canons, down dangerously 
steep declivities, over and across obstructions, 
all recjuiring the utmost care on my part to 
avoid accident. Strange shapes of beasts, ob- 
scure and ghostly, scurried across our way, 
seeking the shelter of remoter regions. 
Whether these were the shapes of harmless 
or of those stronger and more savage animals 
which at times dragged down the strongest 
cattle on the range, we could not tell. 

The snow swirled up out of the canons in 
strangling gusts. It struck and froze on the 
eye lashes and choked the nostrils. 

Nose to the ground, mainly by the smell 
of the light trail, and its feel under my 
feet, I slowly worked out the problem, and 
when at length the ranch-house light flared 
in our faces, it was warmly welcomed by two 
thoroughly tired and chilled people, master 
and I. 

Master was grateful to me for bringing 


10 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


him safely home. His wet right hand sought 
my cold neck and stroked it. 

“Buck, old faithful,'’ he said, and there was 
a quiver in his voice, “you must tell me your 
life story, I will write it out, and we’ll be part- 
ners in the deal.” 

I stopped stock still there in the storm and 
the night. Master let me stand, for he knew 
I was thinking. The past with all its lights 
and shadows unrolled itself before me in a 
flash, and I thought : “A pony who has lived 
through what I have, should have the courage 
to look the world in the face and tell the 
truth, and 1 will relate a true story of a com- 
mon cow pony, a life such as many thousands 
have lived and are living to-day, and no inci- 
dent will be set forth which has not actually 
occurred, for it must be a true record. 

My earliest recollection is of blinding light 
and a gasping for breath. I was cold and 
shivery. My mother was standing over me. 
She fondled, petted and helped me to get upon 
my feet. When I had done this I was weak 
and trembly, and I think I was not very pret- 
ty to look at then. After mother had given 
me my first dinner I felt better, and the warm, 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


II 


caressing Texas sun beat down upon and 
warmed me. Weak and wabbly as I was, I 
wanted to run and play, but when I tried to 
do this my mother ran with me and kept me 
off the rough and dangerous places, and 
coaxed me and led me up a hill onto a wide 
sweep of table land. 

I was nothing but a little filmy-eyed baby 
pony; my legs too long for my body, and I 
would follow another as readily as I would 
my own mother. She had to watch me all the 
time to keep me from getting into trouble. Of 
course I was too young to appreciate the ex- 
treme beauty of the landscape, but from tlie 
standpoint of a pony, it was a paradise. As 
far as my eyes could reach was the billowy 
expanse of upland, with the grass shimmering 
and waving in the sunlight. 

The whole landscape was dotted with ponies, 
idlers all. Some lay stretched out groaning 
in an excess of comfort and contentment, 
others grazed, some played, all were having 
the good time of their lives. 

When I was four days old I felt that I was 
quite a horse, and I joined the other colts in 
their mild races and sports. Mother told me 
that now I could run as fast as I would be 


12 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


able to at four years of age. It is many a 
wild race I ran at four years old, and it is a 
fact that my little soft yellow hoofs as a four- 
day-old could clip off a short quarter as fast 
as I have ever been able to do since. 

Our range was the Staked plains of Texas. 
Over this we wandered as we would, with no 
care, nothing to do but eat, drink and frolic. 
That was a sweet summer ; the responsibilities 
of life, its labors and sufferings were un- 
dreamed of by us youngsters. 

Occasionally an old broken-down cow pony 
would come among us and we would laugh at 
and josh him shamefully. If I had my life to 
live over again, I would be kinder to those 
old fellows. 

We had our little tragedies, it is true, dur- 
ing that first summer. Sometimes the great 
grey wolves would sweep the range. They 
came in packs, vicious, snarling, poisonous, 
hunting for us colts. Then there would 
be a mad rush of colts to a common cen- 
ter. We grew crazy with fear and crowded 
in behind and among our mothers, who 
fought for us and charged into the midst 
of the pack, biting and kicking, and pro- 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


13 


tecting us at the risk of their own lives, 
until the dawn drove the coward brutes to 
cover. One strange thing I noticed was that 
if any colt was bitten, ever so slightly, the 
colt died, but a grown horse or a cow would 
recover from severe wounds. 

That precious first summer passed, winter 
came ; the grass dried up and blew away ; icy 
cold winds beat upon us ; snow storms swept 
the Mesa, and life became one continuous 
struggle for existence. We sought suclf nat- 
ural shelter as we could find and there we 
would huddle together in piteous misery until 
the storm had passed. We grew thinner and 
thinner ; many of my playmates and friends 
died. I, too, would have died but for the de- 
votion of my mother. 

Grass came again and I fattened. The 
memory of a pony colt is not a long memory, 
and soon I forgot the dangers and sufferings 
of the past winter and romped again with my 
fellows. Up to this time I had seen no ani- 
mals save the wild beasts of the plains, long 
horned cattle, and my own kind. If I thought 
at all at this time, it was to think that the 
“Mesa’’ on which we ranged was all there 


14 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


was of the world, that where the waving grass 
tops touched the sky was the end, and that we 
ponies owned it. We suffered the cattle to 
stay about there and scorned them all the time, 
simply because it was too much trouble to 
chase them away. As for the wild beasts, we 
tolerated them because we couldn’t help it. 

Finally, there came to me and my young 
friends a sudden and Stern awakening to the 
fact that we did not own the world. One 
bright morning I was running a few races 
with some young friends, when we saw a most 
amazing sight. A dozen or more ponies, at 
a long easy canter were coming over the brow 
of the “Mesa,” and on the back of each was 
a big, strange looking and homely thing. In 
wild affright we ran into the thickest of the 
herd. I hunted up mother and asked her 
what these things were. 

“My son, those are cow boys,” she an- 
swered. 

“And what are cow boys, mother?” 

“My son, cow boys are our masters. They 
are the masters of all things, and you must 
learn to like them.” 

The other and older ponies laughed at me, 
and said that I would soon find out. 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


15 


The ''cow boys/' as mother called them, cir- 
cled around us and gradually moved us 
toward a great round corral into which we 
were driven ; then they made a great fire into 
which they put a lot of irons. 0‘f course I 
did not know what all this meant, but I was 
soon to find out. 

I hugged close to mother's side, scared and 
in fear that I was to be hurt. I was ! 

Soon the cow boys rode into the corral, 
swinging long ropes. I started to run across 
the corral, but one of them threw his rope, 
and although I jumped as high as I could to 
keep out of the way, he caught me by the 
forelegs and threw me to the ground. Then 
another jumped off his pony and ran up and 
sat down on my head. Still another ran in 
with one of the hot irons and burned upon my 
hide my first brand, which was the letters 
BXB. I thought they were burning my 
whole hip ofif, but they were not, and the pain 
was as nothing to what came after. The man 
who sat on my head kept me from seeing, 
holding me so tight that I could scarcely move. 
Then some one cut and mutilated me dread- 
fully. When they let me go I sprang to my 


i6 Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 

feet, dizzy and blind from pain; I staggered 
and fell, but they only laughed at me and 
struck me with a rope and said: 

''Get out. Buck!” 

This was the first time I had heard my name 
spoken. It was many weeks before I was well, 
and for a long time after this I thought that 
men were fiends who lived only to make life 
a burden, an agony, and a shame to ponies, but 
as I grew older, I found that there were a 
few men who are not so cruel. 

My present master is all that a just, gen- 
erous and considerate master should be. 



CHAPTER IL 
Old Baldy's Advice. 

My second year was uneventful. I grew 
fast and became a leader among my compan- 
ions ; none could run faster than I, none could 
turn quicker. I saw a good deal of men that 
summer, for we were taken frequently to the 
same corral where I was branded, and on one 
occasion I heard a cow boy say : 

'‘That buckskin is going to make a dandy 
cow pony.^' 

I now knew what my fate was, and it made 
me pretty sad, for I noticed that the ponies 


17 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


i8 

which they rode seemed always tired. Many 
of them were stiff and lame, broken down 
and thrown away long before they had 
reached old age. Their riders wore big, jang- 
ling spurs on their heels, and they were ever 
jabbing them into the sides of their ponies. I 
found out afterwards how that hurt. 

Ponies, however, like folks, live mostly in 
the present, and I quickly forgot these un- 
pleasant things, and was as happy as need be. 

This summer was, in many respects, the 
happiest summer of my life. I was old 
enough to be considerable of a horse; I was 
no longer turned down by my elders as I had 
been up to this time, and I had the strength to 
fight for my rights. 

The following winter was a good one and 
it quickly passed, and spring came again. I 
was now a three-year-old, and was a good 
deal larger than my mother. I was also fat 
and strong and mother was proud of my 
beauty and strength. This day she was quiet- 
er than usual; I saw that something troubled 
her, and when I asked her what it was, she 
said : 

''My son, it is your future that troubles me. 
You are a horse now, a big, strong, fine horse ; 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


19 


your days of fun and freedom are almost over ; 
you have been a good son to me, but I fear 
you are too much given to the use of your 
heels and teeth. Beware, my son, beware. 
Bosses are stronger than ponies.’’ 

That made me mad. The idea of one of 
those gangling, two-legged things being 
stronger than I. I sprang up trembling, and 
striking the tough sod one blow with my 
right fore hoof, which buried it up to the 
fetlock, said : ^^Stronger than I ? Can a boss 
do that?” 

I saw that mother was grieved at my anger 
and I laughed the subject ofif. A few days 
later my time came. 

A dozen or more of the leanest, lankiest, 
toughest looking bosses I had yet seen 
rode up, at first quietly, among us. They 
pointed at this pony and at that one, then sep- 
arated out a bunch of us and drove us into the* 
corral and closed the huge gates so that we 
could not escape. They followed us into the 
corral, uncoiling as they did so the riattas, 
which hung at their saddle pommels. 

I noticed that the ponies which they rode 
were small, bright-eyed, crisp-acting fellows 


20 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


who seemed to take pleasure in their work. 
They rode about among us for some time talk- 
ing of this and that one, but at length I heard 
one of them say : 

'T believe Til try that buskskin; he is big 
enough to go to work.’^ 

I knew that my time had come, as mother 
had told me, and I was scared stiff, my heart 
fluttering so that I could hardly breathe. One 
turned toward me, and I ran as fast as I could 
about the corral trying to hide from them. 

It was no use. That rope came like a flash ; 
dodge it I couldn’t, and it dropped over my 
neck. I saw him hook the rope around the 
pommel of his saddle; I saw the little pony 
he was riding stop so quick that the dirt was 
cut by his hoofs from under his feet. Another 
jump, and I was at the end of the rope; my 
heels went into the air and I fell broadside. 
The shock of that fall was something awful. 
It knocked the breath out of my body and 
most broke my neck. I was not able to rise 
for some time, when I did I was blind. I 
was in no great pain, but I felt a numbness all 
over my body. I knew that I was alive and 
that my neck was broken ; I expected to die. 
I was surprised that I was alive at all. 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


21 


My head hung down to the ground and 
pointed off sideways and wabbled about ; the 
sweat broke out on me and poured off in 
streams ; then I heard some one say : 

''Damme if I didn’t kink his neck.” 

They took the rope off and drove me out of 
the cgrral onto the range, the man who hurt 
me, saying : "Well, better luck next time. 
Buck.” 

I grew thin and weak ; I traveled in circles, 
always to the left, my head pointing off in that 
direction. It was hard for me to eat or drink, 
and I feel sure that I should have died but for 
my mother, who came down and stayed with 
me until I was able to rejoin the herd. It was 
mid-winter before I could again get my head 
up where I wanted to carry it, straight to the 
front. 

Had that winter not been a mild one I 
should have died. Spring came that year 
early, bright and warm. I took on flesh rap- 
idly and was soon again a rollicky, fun-loving 
pony, ready for a flght or a race, but mother, 
good soul, was still troubled for my future. 
She said: 

"You are a four-year-old now, and they will- 


22 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


surely catch you again. They always 'break^ 
ponies at four years of age.’’ 

I 'replied : ^‘But, mother, they kinked my 
neck once, and they ought to be satisfied.” 

‘'No, no, my son, they will want you to pack 
a boss on your back; you will have to do it. 
When you are caught again don’t run against 
the rope, stop quick, and do what they want 
you to.” 

I had not much sense in those days, I mean 
boss sense, but I knew they didn’t go at it 
right and it made me mad. I said to mother: 

“Mother, I can’t stand it; I’ll fight them. 
If they would be nice to me, I’d be nice to 
them, but they wont.” 

She was a dear, wise old mother, and I now 
know that her advice was good. She replied : 

“Bucky, dear, don’t fight; you’ll get the 
worst of it. You are a big, strong pony. You 
can do the work easily, and it will be so much 
better.” 

Well, I promised her that I would, and I 
tried faithfully, but it was no use. 

There was in our herd a bay pony with a 
bald face and four white stockings. He must 
have been a great beauty at some time, in fact. 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


23 


he was still handsome. I heard the bosses 
say that there was good blood in that pony, 
even if he was a broncho. 

His coat was as shiny as silver. He had 
big, clear, beautiful brown eyes and wide open 
flexible nostrils. We called him “Old Baldy.’' 
He had a big reputation among us for wis- 
dom, and we often referred our disputes to 
him for settlement. When the poor, old fel- 
low tried to run, it was laughable to see the 
way he fell to pieces. You see he had been 
a great cow horse in his younger days, and 
had been abused by cruel and thoughtless rid- 
ers, until now, when he should have been just 
in his prime-, he was broken down and stiff in 
every joint. On his knees were unsightly 
bunches ; scars marred the satiny coat, and it 
made me very sad to see him, for I thought 
“such will be my fate.’’ 

Old Baldy was of no account any more, but 
we respected him for what he had been and 
for his kindness and wisdom. To this faithful 
and wise old fellow, mother took me for a 
good talk, and we three went to the top of a 
knoll where the breeze swept the flies and 
mosquitos away, and there we were alone. 


24 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


There were really four of us, for mother now 
had by her side another colt, but it was a lit- 
tle frail filly colt, and I didn't count it. 

We went over the whole subject of “break- 
ing." Baldy was quiet and thoughtful, but 
when urged by mother, said : 

“I have been through the whole business ; I 
have seen thousands of ponies broken ; it is a 
very, very bad business for the ponies, but 
after all my experience and observation, I am 
satisfied that the best way is to submit and be 
a good pony, and do just as the cow boys want 
us to do." 

Now, what could a pony do when his moth- 
er and Baldy talked to him in that way, but 
give his promise? T gave my word of honor, 
and I faithfully intended to keep it. Why 
shouldn’t a pony’s honor be kept as bright as 
that of a boss? Then we touched noses and 
separated. 

I went off where I saw some strange ponies 
quarrelling with some friends of mine ; I 
mixed in and chased them off the range, while 
Baldy laid down to rest his poor bid bones, 
and mother gave her baby colt some dinner. 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 25 

When I returned, Baldy called me up onto a 
hill for a private talk.- He said : 

'‘Buck, it is a good rule to be always a good 
pony, and do promptly and cheerfully all that 
is required of you, but you may be abused be- 
yond endurance ; you may fall into the hands 
of a man who will try to break your jaw or 
cut your tongue ofif with the bridle bit and 
cut your sides open with the rowels.’’ Pie 
showed me his tongue, which was half cut ofif, 
and bade me rub my nose along the ridges on 
his sides and flanks where he had been torn 
by the cruel and unnecessary use of spurs. Pie 
continued : 

"If you ever fall into the hands of such a 
monster you should buck him ofif.” 

He explained to me all the best methods of 
bucking, such as bucking down hill, or into a 
water or mud hole. He said that a very efifec- 
tual buck was to pitch as high as possible 
into the air and land with ends reversed. If 
none of these approved methods were effec- 
tual, and probably they would not be, I should 
• try falling on my side ; I might catch some- 
thing, perhaps a leg or an arm underneath me, 
and break it. If, however, I did not succeed, 


26 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


there was one final eflfort I should make which 
would, he felt sure, do the business. 

While telling this the old fellow’s eyes 
gleamed and his voice sank to a whisper. He 
said that not many ponies knew how to do it, 
and fewer still had the required courage, 
strength and agility. He felt sure, however, 
that I had all these. He said: 

“When the proper moment comes, do the 
act promptly, with energy, and without mercy. 
You must not be exhausted or out of breath, 
or you will fail. Catch your rider unawares; 
lead him to think that you are just a common 
dull bucker. To do this, you may rear up, 
kick and plunge about until he becomes care- 
less and confident of his seat ; then pitch 
straight away, not too hard, and then with a 
supreme effort, spring high in the air and 
come down square on your back. If you do it 
quickly enough and with sufficient energy, you 
will feel something soft under you and you 
may hear the sound of crushing bones as the 
pommel of your saddle is driven into stomach 
or chest.” 

He gave me all the details of the operation, 
and I took it all in. I was amazed at the cold- 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


27 


blooded proposition. As he told me this, his 
voice, eye, ear, thin quavering nostrils and 
distended veins, all told of the invincible spir- 
it imprisoned within the scarred and crippled 
old body. 

Of course I never thought that I would be 
called upon to try this tragical method of 
getting rid of a cruel master, yet his talk 
made me very sober. During the next few 
days I thought constantly upon what he had 
told me, but never for a moment did I think 
of violating my solemn promise to mother. 

I know that this is a ragged chapter in my 
history and I hestitate to tell it, but I said 
I would tell the truth, the whole truth and 
nothing but the truth, and so, I here acknowl- 
edge that I got old Baldy to go with me 
down into a deep coulee, out of sight of all 
the other ponies, and give me a few private 
lessons in the art of self defense along the 
lines indicated by him. 

''To be bossed. Buck, is our fate, — a hard 
fate it is for all us ponies, — but there are 
some kind people in the world; I have known 
several. Sometimes one of these becomes 
a cow boy. Be good and gentle. Buck, it is 


28 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


best. I have played the game of life. The 
final round up for your Uncle Baldy is al- 
most here (a tear trickled down his cheek). 
My young friend, I pray that you will fare 
in the game better than 

Mother had come up and was crying. The 
whole conversation made me tired, then 
mother chipped in again : 

''Now, my son, you have heard what 
Uncle Baldy says; promise me to be good 
and not fight or make trouble.” 



CHAPTER III. 

Death of Mexican Pete. 

Not long after Baldy had finished me off 
in his private school, as I have related, sev- 
eral hundred of us were corralled, and an even 
hundred miles and again corailed and branded, 
remainder being thrown back on the range. 
We were then driven rapidly south about a 
hundred miles and again corailed and branded. 
This time we were not • thrown but were 
driven one at a time into a narrow lane called 
a ''branding shoot.’’ 

This was just wide enough for one pony 
to squeeze in, and, once in, bars were put 
up before and behind him so that he could 


29 


30 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


neither go forward nor backward; then the 
sides of the shoot, which were hinged, were 
pressed against his sides until it seemed his 
bones w^ere being crushed and the breath 
thoroughly squeezed out of his body. While 
held thus, unable to move, and scarcely able 
to breathe, the branding iron was applied. 
In our case the first thing done was to run 

a straight bar like this through 

the B X B and then the new brand was 
burned on. 

The new brand which was now burned on 
us was called a cross-anchor. As my hip 
already bore the B X B brand, the new 
one was put on the thigh. We knew from 
this that we had been sold to the ‘"Cross- 
anchor” people, and that they were marking 
us so that they might know us wherever we 
might be. 

They did not buy us as an investment ; they 
at once began breaking us. They said that 
a pony was of no account unless he was 
broken and taught to do their work ; that we 
ought to be philosophical enough to take 
breaking and the consequent work as a part 
of life. 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


31 


I wish to say right here that it is not to 
breaking, in a reasonable manner, nor to 
legitimate work that I object, nor have I 
talked with many ponies who did, but it is 
to brutal and thoughtless breaking, and ex- 
cessive and unnecessary work that we object. 
The fact is that most ponies after they are 
broken rightly, and are handled by kind and 
thoughtful masters, like to work for them. 
Any observing cow boy will tell you that 
most ponies are, or seem to be, eager to work, 
that their eyes gleam and that they show 
every evidence of pleasure at a stiff piece of 
work, well done. I know that that is the 
case with myself and many of my friends. 

On the big ranches the men who break 
the ponies are a different lot from the 
straight cowboys. Often they are hired for 
the sole purpose of breaking, and they travel 
from ranch to ranch in their business, some- 
times being paid so much per head, and 
sometimes they get a certain percentage of 
the horses broken. They are called '‘Biic- 
carios'^ or busters. I never liked the word 
'Tuster.’’ 


32 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


It was a gang of five men who took us in 
hand, and they were not a bad looking lot, 
with one exception. Three of the five were 
long, slim, laughing, apparently good na- 
tured fellows ; the fourth was a small, lithe 
fellow, who had a soft, smooth, even voice, 
and he worked slowly and with gentleness. 
He was the best one of the lot, and I noticed 
that he had the least trouble of any of them 
with his ponies. The fifth — and here I try 
to speak without malice or prejudice — was 
a hard looking lot. He was a big, stout, 
loud-mouthed, swaggering fellow, who. when 
not swearing at some of us, was rolling 
cigarettes, and I took him for a Mexican 
negro. 

I knew that the ponies who fell to him 
would have trouble, and I did my best to 
avoid him ; often I placing myself in front 
of the little fellow, who I thought was the 
best one, but I suppose he did not know what 
I wanted, for he would not catch me. Sev- 
eral times I dodged the rope of Mex, for 
that is what the others called the negro, but 
at last he caught me. 

I was standing away over in the middle 



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Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


35 


of the bunch, but I guess that my head must 
have been up too high, for so swift that I 
could not see it coming, over the heads of 
dozens of ponies, came his rope, landing 
about my neck* 

I remembered how my neck had Peen 
broken by running up against a rope, so I 
made no attempt to run away, and when he 
pulled, which he did in no gentle manner, 
I walked straight up to him. 

I was determined to have no trouble with 
him, and I prayed that he would be as good 
as I and try to have no trouble with me ; if 
he had only done this the end would have 
been so different. 

I stood pretty quiet while he put on my 
bridle, though he was awfully rough about 
it. The bridle bit was what is known as a 
spade bit; I suppose it is called so because 
of a long steel plate, shaped like a spade, that 
runs up into the mouth of the pony. 

They are a cruel contrivance ; when the 
reins are pulled the spade raises up against 
the roof of the pony's mouth, and if the 
reins are jerked, it flies up and tears the 
roof so that it bleeds. I saw one fine pony 


36 Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 

bleed to death by a cut received in this 
manner. 

Well, he forced this awful bit into my 
mouth, as I say, in a very rough manner; I 
stood still, however. He then dragged up 
his immense saddle ; my, but it was a heavy 
saddle ! He slammed it down on my back 
as though I was an old working pony, fright- 
ening me so that I capered around a good 
deal, though did nothing, I am sure, very 
bad. He then cinched that saddle, and I 
never thought that anything could pinch me 
as that cinch did. When he got through 
I could scarcely breathe. Now, there I was, 
\yith a running noose about my neck, which 
was drawn uncomfortably tight ; wdth that 
terrible bit in my mouth ; a fifty pound saddle 
on my back cinched so tight that I felt I 
must surely die of it. 

Do you wonder that I thought I should 
fall in my tracks with pain and fright? Do 
you not think that I was entitled to gentle 
treatment, and a few kind and assuring 
words? Did 1 get them? Not at all, any 
more than do the vast majority of ponies 
while being broken. Through it all I had 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


37 


no thought of being mean; I kept thinking 
of what I had promised mother. 

I was determined that come what would, 
I would carry him quietly and as strong as 
I could, so that he would be good to me. 
This, however, is what he did. 

Pie tied the bridle reins to the lariet, which 
was still about my neck, so that when he 
jerked the rope he jerked the reins; he then 
took the end of the lariet and began beating 
me over the hips and legs. What he was 
doing it for I am sure I don’t know, for I 
had done nothing wrong. When I would 
start to run away he would jerk the rope, and 
soon had my mouth bleeding and the sweat 
pouring from me. 

This was bad enough but worse was com- 
ing. He struck me- in the face with his old 
sombrero and hurt my eye. He cussed and 
swore at me, calling me all the vile names 
I had ever heard and many more. He said : 
■ “Why don’t you buck, you yellow devil?” 
Still I wouldn’t buck. 

“Damn you. I’ll make you !” 

With that he mounted me, and I at once 
walked olf quietly, as I thought, though of 


38 Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 

course I was trembly and shied. I had gone 
but a few steps when he jerked me up short, 
cutting my mouth so that the blood dripped 
from my lips. I stood still, trembling with 
fright, not knowing what would come next, 
but I soon found out. He struck me in the 
flanks with the spurs, then on the sides and 
shoulders and neck, even up to my ears. 
Every time he struck me, it cut the skin and 
flesh. 

I was soon bleeding all along my sides 
and neck. I plunged about as best I could, 
of course, but it did no good. I tried to 
stop and tell him I would do what he wanted 
me to, but every time I stopped he grew 
worse. I thought he was killing me. 

I thought, ''Why should I tamely submit 
to torture, mutilation, and death at the hands 
of this man whom I have never even thought 
of harming?’’ 

Like a flash there came to me the words 
of Old Baldy there in the coulee : 

"If ever you fall into the hands of such 
a monster (such an one as Mex), pitch him 
off if possible; if you cannot, there is one 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


39 


final effort you must make, which I feel sure 
will prove tragically effective.’’ 

Every detail of the process, as Baldy 
showed it to me stood out before me there 
in the corral, with sudden and startling dis- 
tinctness. I no longer felt the pain of quirt 
and spur, of cinch and bleeding mouth. I 
no longer heard his volleying curses ; I was 
a savage, pure, simple, cold ! 

My one thought was to kill, kill, kill ! the 
brute who was torturing me. I knew that 
I could not throw him off, and even if I did, 
it would do no good, as he would wear me 
out. I knew if 1 was to crush him under- 
neath me, I must first throw him off his 
guard, and then, the one mighty effort which 
Uncle Baldy had told me. 

I pitched gently away, straight across the 
dusty corral, until I felt he was grown care- 
less and I felt the grip of his knees relax, 
then I sprang as high as I could straight into 
the air, turned half over and came down on 
my back, utterly reckless of the consequences 
to myself. 

I heard a soft crushing sound beneath me. 


40 


Memoirs OF a Cow Pony. 


and, scrambling to my feet, knew that my 
work was well done. 

They carried Mex out of the corral. The 
next morning, underneath a giant elm which 
stood there on the brink of the canon, he was 
buried. After this they called me ^‘Buck, the 
Man-Killer,'"’ though in truth, I was but an 
ignorant pony, who wanted a chance to do 
what was right and be useful. 



CHAPTER IV. 

How Buck Became a Cow Pony. 

At last ninety-nine of the hundred ponies 
were declared broken and ready for work. 1 
had not been caught since I had earned the 
title of ^'Man-killeP’ ; all seemed to shun me. 
and I was, in truth, entirely willing that they 
should. I was having an easy time. 

Mid-summer came ; autumn followed fast, 
and the great autumnal beef round up was 
on. All the cattle on the great ranges were 
gathered together or rounded up into bunches, 
and the full grown or ripe steers were sepa- 
rated or cut but and driven to the railroads 
for shipment to market. 


4T 



42 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


I do not intend to describe the labor and 
excitements of a round up. I am telling 
my individual experiences only. I, not be- 
ing broken, was an idler. Regularly every 
morning I was driven into the rope corral 
with the others, but no one wanted to try a 
pony with the record I had made. They 
must have become tired of seeing me idling 
about though, for one morning when the 
men were catching the horses for the day’s 
work, the foreman said : 

“That buckskin must be rode. Phil, sup- 
pose you try him.’’ 

“All right, sir,” answered Phil. 

I was standing away out in the middle of 
the close bunch, and again over the backs of 
a dozen or more horses, whiz, came a raw- 
hide riatta which lodged square about my 
neck. I was led out, frightened and nervous, 
for I did not know what manner of man 
Phil might be. However, I kept cool and 
followed him out onto the prairie. He was 
a small, blue eyed man, and when he spoke 
to me, saying: 

“Well, Buck, are you going to be a bad 
pony to-day?” I found that he had a low^ 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


43 


soothing voice. This made me less afraid. 

He gently stroked my neck and muzzle. 
He told the others to keep away, that he 
would handle me without help. He then 
slipped the bridle bit ever so gently into my 
mouth and put the headstall over my head, 
not hurting me in the least. 

His bridle bit, while pretty severe, was 
nothing like that villainous spade bit of Old 
Mex. Phil called it a half-breed bit, I sup- 
pose because it was about half way between 
a spade and a common driving bit. He now 
led me about for a good while, all the time 
talking soothingly to me and telling me that 
he was not going to hurt me and that we 
would be good friends. He then let me 
smell of the saddle blanket. I suppose that 
he wanted me to know that it was nothing 
dangerous. I didn’t smell anything on it but 
pony, and he rubbed it all over my neck and 
head, then over my back and legs. He did 
all this so gently and slowly that there was 
no chance or cause to be frightened, and I 
wasn’t. 

He then placed the blanket in place on my 
back, still continuing to talk to me kindly. 


44 


. Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


Then he made me smell of the saddle ; it too 
smelled of nothing but pony. Now he 
gently and slowly laid the saddle on my back; 
I think he was afraid that I would kick him, 
for when he wanted the cinch he reached 
through under my belly with a stick, rather 
than his hand, to get it. He cinched me up 
good and tight, but not so tight as to crush 
me. He then led me about, nor did he whip 
or abuse me in any manner. 

I was very grateful to him for all his kind- 
ness. I only wanted to know what he wanted 
me to do, and I stood ready to do it. Fianlly 
he coiled up his rope, one end of which was 
about my neck, and ran the loose end through 
the curb strap of my bridle, then he was 
ready to mount me. 

I never saw a cow outfit that had not some 
smart Aleck in it, and this one was no ex- 
ception. It was the cook this time, and to 
show his wit he called out : 

“Whar’ you goin' to fall, Phil? Wedl 
gather up the pieces.’’ 

The other cow boys sat upon their horses 
expecting to see Phil have trouble with me, 
and at the cook’s sally they burst into a great 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


45 


fit of laughter. Neither Phil nor I thought 
it a bit funny. 

Phil now took his coiled rope in his left 
hand, and with the same hand took hold of 
the cheek strap of my bridle and drew my 
head well around toward his hip. He then 
grasped the pommel with his right hand and 
slowly raised himself into the saddle. I 
stood perfectly still. 

''All right, boys, go ahead,’' said Phil. 

With creaking of saddle leather and jin- 
gling of bridle chains and rowels, the dozen 
or more cow boys tolled off for his circle 
swung away at a good swift canter, I fol- 
lowing as best I could. 

I am aware that I did no good as far as 
work was concerned, but Phil was patient 
with me and I learned a whole lot of things. 
I learned that "get there” was the law of 
the range, and I learned that a pony who 
could not "get there,” quick, was no good. 
I resolved that if I lived Pd not take a back 
seat for any horse in the outfit. In one 
thing I am sure I beat them all, and that was 
in getting in everybody’s way. Tired? 
Well, I guess I was, and when the saddle 


46 Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 

was taken off that evening, I just quietly 
crawled away and laid down. Every bone 
in my body ached. 

The other ponies just laughed at and made 
fun of me; while I lay groaning in agony 
they took a good roll in the fragrant grass 
and wandered away grazing. 

The next day I felt better, and at the end 
of six days I was ready for work again. I 
believe that I did pretty good work this 
time, at least Phil said I did for a ^^green- 
horn,” whatever that is. 

After this I took my regular turns, coming 
on for a day’s work about once a week, and 
finally it came to be pretty easy for me. 
After the round-up I went with the beef to 
the railroad, and there for the first time I 
saw an engine. I have to laugh even now 
when I think what a spectacle I made of 
both Phil and myself. The cattle had been 
left back where the grass was good. A 
number of the punchers rode up to the big 
loading pens, Phil and I among them. We 
stood close to the track when the big, roaring 
monster came past us, and it was a terrible 
siglit to a pony who had never before been 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 47 

off the range. It was an awful trial to stand 
there and see it coming. It was as big as 
all of us ponies put together; roared loud 
-enough to make a pony deaf, and breathed 
breaths as big and white as clouds. I stood 
there ready to fall down, or to run away, and 
expected to be killed. 

Phil was sitting in the saddle laughing 
and talking, not thinking that I had reached 
the point where I was ready to do some- 
thing desperate. I stood it, however, until 
the engine whistled; I had never heard such 
an awful blood curdling noise before, and 
instantly all my brave resolutions vanished 
and I concluded that it was time for me to 
bolt. Bolt I did. 

I did not give anybody notice that I was 
going to, but just flew so quick that I left 
Phil sprawling there in the sand, then I made 
tracks as fast as I could for camp, and as I 
raced through the sage brush and cactus I 
heard a roar of laughter behind me, then 
there was a chorus of those awful whistles 
again. I heard a voice call out : ‘'Go it, Buck, 
or ril git ye.’’ 

I had no time to look back. I expected every 


48 Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 

moment to be murdered in cold blood, and 
I reached camp as weak as a sick cat, thor- 
oughly winded, and my feet full of cactus 
thorns. 

I expected to have trouble with Phil over 
my conduct, but he did look sheepish when 
he came after me and rode me back. He 
was a gentleman though, that man Phil was, 
for he didn’t blame me, and said : ‘'The 
durned thing skeert me, too,” also, “that he 
intended now to intro juce me to the bulljine,” 
that is what he called it, “regular.” He 
did it. 

He made me walk right up to it. It was 
hot and greasy. He rubbed my nose against 
it. It was hotter than any desert sand I ever 
nosed, and I have never been able to get 
entirely over the fright I had that day. 

After the beef had been shipped we were 
taken back to the range and turned loose. I 
did no more work that winter, save the 
strenuous work which it required to live. 
That winter was the worst ever known in 
the Pan-Handle country. 



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CHAPTER V. 

One Awful Night. 

In November it began raining, and 
gradually grew colder and colder still, until 
the rain froze as it fell and everything was 
covered. The summer had been very dry and 
the grass was short. When what little there 
was became coated with ice, to get enough 
to keep alive became a problem, a problem 
too deep for thousands of ponies and scores 
of thousands of cattle to solve. 

We ponies stood it better than the cattle. 
We could paw the snow and. ice off and get 
a taste of what little grass there was. But 


5 


52 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


those poor cattle, with their homely split 
hoofs, couldn’t paw as we could. 

W e wandered everywhere on the range 
hunting for feed, but it was ice on the grass 
here and ice on the grass there, a ‘'norther’’ 
to-day and a norther to-morrow. It seemed 
that none of us would live until spring. 

If it had not been for the cattle we would 
have fared better, but as soon as we would 
get a patch of grass pawed oflf so that we 
could get a nibble, the poor starving creatures 
would come crowding in on us, taking a mean 
advantage of our industry by eating what 
we had dug up, for in their misery they no 
longer feared us. We would then move on, 
and so they followed us about from place to 
place, dying, always dying. I guess that 
they were better^ off dead, though, for they 
would have been killed and eaten in the end 
anyway. 

I shall never forget one awful night. 
There were many nights of horror, and days 
too, that dreadful winter, but one in partic- 
ular will haunt me to the end of my trail. 

It was a clear night, but a mugg}^ one, 
the air was blue and thick, so that a pony 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 53 

could not see his body’s length. It was thick 
with a deadly chill, so full of frost that it 
choked in the nostrils and chilled the lungs; 
it festooned on the eyelashes so that we were 
blind. 

To stand still meant death, so we trav- 
elled, staggered rather, slowly and blindly 
forward, we knew not where, anywhere for 
movement, for life, to escape that deadly, 
blighting blast of death out of the northland. 
The strongest of us were in front. Behind 
came a long ever stiifening procession of 
weaker ones, and weaker still. Following 
these was 'a vast body of cattle, the bulls and 
steers in the van, then the cows and calves, 
mother cows and baby calves, following. 

We traveled thus blindly on until we came 
to the edge of the mesa, to the brakes of the 
Cimaron. It was a rough region, full of 
yawning canohS, dangerous even by day, but 
a veritable hell, at night, in a blizzard. 

There was no odor in the air, no ray of 
kindly light found its way through the frost 
closed eyelids to warn us that a miserable 
death lay there at our feet. All unwarned 
and unheeding over the brink of a precipice, 
down into a rocky gorge we fell ! I fell on 


54 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


top of others, rolled off, scrambled to my 
feet and limped away. 

For long dark hours I heard the crush of 
bones, the groans of mangled and dying 
ponies, the whinnying of mothers and the 
feeble answering cry of the colts. I heard 
the rattle and breaking of horns, the groan- 
ing and bawling of cows and calves, and this 
long drawn-out and horrible nightmare lasted 
until the pale, cold sun broke dimly on the 
scene. It was ashamed to shed its pure rays 
upon so sad a scene. 

The entire canon was filled with the man- 
gled remains of the dead. The ponies were 
buried under the avalanche of cattle, and so 
full was the chasm that a careful and strong 
pony could have walked across upon the 
yielding forms. Hundreds of ponies, crip- 
pled and mangled, stood or lay about. A 
frosty mist, fresh and salty smelling, like 
fresh blood, arose from the mass. Ice, red 
ice, formed about them. Some had broken 
legs, others eyes gouged out, from others the 
entrails protruded, while from the whole 
went up a subdued and pitiful moaning. 

As fast as my stiff and sprained limbs per- 
mitted, I fled from the awful sights and 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


55 


sounds, and sought other {pastures. As I 
slowly limped my way across the mesa, 
across which we had drifted the night before, 
I saw a number of men and teams at work 
cutting and raking up the cacti which grows 
everywhere in that region. The sight was 
like that of a great hay field in the Dakotas 
and puzzled my poor benumbed brain no 
little, but while I was wondering what it all 
meant, fires were kindled in the long winrows 
of cactus, and the burning piles were raked 
and hauled over by the men, and finally 
raked out again and scattered. 

Then the lean and hungry cattle were 
driven up, . and behold ! the mystery was 
solved. They were feeding the starving 
brutes. They had been burning the thorns 
ofif the cacti so that they might be eaten, and 
the long-horns seemed willing enough to do 
this. They fought one another, each striv- 
ing to get the most of the unsavory stuff. I 
tried it; it was better than nothing, but after 
one good fill, I left the field to the cattle, and 
did not try it again. 

I have heard it said that it saved the lives 
of thousands of heads of cattle. 



CHAPTER VI. 

Adios Granny. 

Another Spring came. The grass grew 
quickly, and soon I was round, plump and 
rollicking again. I have always tried to look 
on the bright side of life. If I have an ugly 
rider, one who abused me, I tried to think 
that he may die, and the next one may be 
better. In the midst of the most heart- 
breaking work, or the dreariest winter, I 
tried to brave it out, thinking that spring 
and change will soon be here and it may be 
for the better, and I think that this is the 
true philosophy for both men and ponies. 


56 



Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


57 


The spring brought a complete change for 
me. The cattle company which owned me 
(it was a Chicago corporation), they said, 
had lost so many cattle and ponies that winter 
that they grew discouraged with the business 
and sold out, so as soon as we were in good 
condition we were rounded up and turned 
over to an outfit of strange cow boys and 
moved south. I noticed that many of the 
new outfit had brown skins and spoke Span- 
ish, of which I didn’t understand a word. 

I did, however, understand the language 
of the rowels and the quirt, and I knew the 
duties of a cow pony, so I got along pretty 
well. 

We now belonged to a big outfit which 
owned cattle scattered over hundreds of 
miles of range. It was said that the com- 
pany had upon this range more than one 
hundred thousand cattle under a brand de- 
noted by a large circle with a smaller one in 
the center. It required hundreds of men 
and thousands of ponies to work the range. 
To-day, it was our work to turn back upon 
their own range a drift of wandering cattle; 
to-morrow they must be bunched at this or 


S8 Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 

that water hole, and again scattered to points 
where the feed was fresher and better. 

All of this made much hard work for men 
and horses. Then there was the never-ending 
round-up and the cutting out and branding. 
Beyond this, which is all that faithful cow 
ponies ought to be called upon to do, was 
the foohs work, which the cow boys, or some 
of them, were always imposing upon us. 

If I were a foreman, I would not allow 
the cow boys to ride the ponies to their own 
and the ponies’ ruin, for nothing but to get 
drunk or bask in the smiles of brazen and 
shameless women. 

It was many a long trip I made that sum- 
mer to a great adobe resort on the banks of 
the Rio Grande, sixty-five long, hot, dusty 
miles, for no other purpose than that my 
rider might get drunk and squander his 
hard-earned pay on the dusky senoritas, who 
smiled .and smiled upon him, until his last 
peseta was gone. After that it was ''Va- 
moosej' or the bullet of senor or the stiletto 
of senorita. 

This summer I was in the string of a big 
loose jointed youth called Joe. He may have 



THE NEVER ENDING ROUNDUP 





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Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 6i 

had another name, but I think not. I never 
heard him called anything but just ''Joe.’’ 
He was the most peculiar and mysterious 
fellow I ever met, and I think none of his 
mates knew any more about him than I, none 
of them knowing who he was or where he 
came from, for he was not disposed to tell 
them. Any attempt to find out from him 
was resented so emphatically that the enquirer 
was not at all likely to try it again. He was 
rough, and tough in every direction; the best 
cow boy I ever knew, and the best boss, save 
my present master. He was always gentle, 
thoughtful, and considerate of my feelings, 
and I know he liked me, and I liked him; in 
truth, everybody liked him. At times he was 
a veritable terror. On foot he shambled in 
his gait and wabbled about, but the instant 
he threw his leg over the cantle, he was 
transformed into the most graceful rider in 
Texas, sitting as straight and tense as though 
moulded out of flexible marble. 

Joe was always ragged, and after a hard 
round-up his clothes were just simply ready 
to fall off, all except his boots. No matter 
what the work or weather, on foot or mounted. 


62 


Memoirs qf a Cow Pony. 


rain,- snow or shine, in the corral or on the 
trail, he always wore the finest and hand- 
somest boots I have ever seen. Where they 
came from nobody knew, but he always had 
them. He paid, so I heard it said, twenty- 
five dollars a pair. 

I never knew Joe to be cold, hungry or 
tired, and he had no use for anyone who- 
was. He was the handiest man on the range 
with a six-shooter, and when he went wild,, 
which he did after each pay day, they all 
treated him as though he owned the ranch,, 
and let him have his own way. He accepted 
this treatment as though entitled to it. 

Not only was he the best shot on the range,, 
but he was said to be the best man with a 
rope in Texas. There was not one in the 
outfit but would gamble even his saddle, that 
Joe could lassoo a jack rabbit, and he could 
do it too. He had medals and prizes won 
in shooting and roping contests which he 
valued more than he did his old clothes. He 
gave them away to anyone who wanted them. 

He was also the swearingest man I ever 
carried, and I have carried some bad ones in 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 63 

my day. About everything he said was pre- 
ceded by a string of oaths. 

I have said that he liked me and I 
know he did, but he had the strangest 
ways of showing it. He knocked me about 
scandalous, and swore at me outrageously. 
He often told me I wasn’t worth a damn, and 

lhat if he owned me he’d shoot my d 

head off. I knew he didn’t mean a word of 
it though, because many a time when I knew 
he must have been dead tired, he would walk 
and lead me over the rough places so that I 
might rest. All the time cussing me for a 
worthless, lazy, old devil, who wasn’t worth 
killing, and yet, when camp was reached, he 
would lift the saddle off my back carefully 
and gently and examine to see if it was blis- 
tered and often he bathed my back with cold 
water to draw out the fever. When he would 
finally turn me loose though, he generally gave 
another good cussing. 

I liked Joe. Why? Well, perhaps it was 
because there was good leather in him, for I 
always did like that in a boss. I mean by that 
that Joe never grumbled nor complained, no 
matter what the provocation.. If the weather 


64 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


was bad, the grub poor and scant, and the 
cattle hard to hold, then it was that Joe 
laughed the louder and worked the harder. 
Fear and Joe were strangers. If an old bull 
or a testy heifer went on a rampage and tried 
to run the outfit, Joe would mount the ob- 
streperous brute and ride it until it gave up 
and behaved. 

Between the calf round-up in the early 
summer and the beef round-up in the autumn 
should be a. period of rest for ponies and men. 
But this did not suit Joe; anything like rest 
or inactivity always did make a fool of him, 
as it seemed to me. 

He heard that beyond the Rio Grande Riv- 
er, forty or fifty miles away, there was being 
held a grand Mexican Holiday festival, and 
Joe determined to attend. There was a good 
deal of wrangling between him and the range 
foreman over the matter, but in the end, as 
usual, Joe won out. No pony would do for 
Joe but Buck, and one evening after supper, 
he saddled me and we started, and the next 
morning we were in the midst of the hilarious 
festivities. There was gathered for the af- 
fair thousands of Mexican men and women. 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 65 

Mexican Indians of strange tribes, Navajo 
and Apache Indians from our side of the river 
and countless papooses of all these people, 
whose principal occupation and delight was 
as it seemed to me, to get in every pony’s way. 

Joe was happy. He danced with the danc- 
ers, and jollied the women scandously; he 
fought with the men, and won their silver at 
chuck-a-luck and monte ; he petted and packed 
the kids about as though they were fully 
clothed and his own ; he emptied his 
pockets of the silver which he, had won 
from their fathers into the little dirty 
hands, and said the affair was ‘‘a jolly good 
picnic.” He beat all comers at rifle and pistol 
shooting, and proposed to enter into the steer- 
roping contests, but they had seen enough of 
Joe’s genius for winning, and they promptly 
barred him from further competitions. Now 
Joe was not one to tamely submit to being bar- 
red from this, the principal event, without 
protest. He rode me out in front of the judg- 
es’ stand and gave them a talk ; sitting there 
on my back, sombrero in hand, he made 
those five judges a regular speech; and he 


66 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


could do it too, as he said, ''to the queen’s 
taste.’’ He said : 

"Senors: — I have ridden far and fast in or- 
der that I might take part in the festivities 
of this glorious occasion ; I am here represent- 
ing the Great American Eagle; I want you to 
listen to the noble bird scream. I rely on your 
well-known generosity and courtesy. I ask 
for a chance, and for a square deal; to deny 
me these would be a national shame and a 
disgrace. Your great neighbor on the other 
•side of the Rio would feel hurt if their repre- 
sentative should be turned down by you ; don’t 
do it, Senors, don’t do it. Give Buck and me,” 
and right here he stroked my neck, "a run for 
our money, and we’ll show you a few things 
that’ll open your eyes.” 

He then slung a lot of talk that neither they 
nor I understood, and it just made me laugh 
to hear him ; it was better than a circus. He 
said he "didn’t care a cuss for their old prize, 
but he wanted the fun of skinning those 
dammed Greasers.” The judges, however, 
stuck to their ruling that he should not enter 
the contest, and ordered him to fall back out 
of the way, so he gave them a final verbal vol- 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 67 

ley and turned about to leave. While Joe had 
been wrangling with the judges, a party of 
American men and women had come up, per- 
haps a dozen of them, and as we turned' we 
met them face to face. One, a tall gray-mus- 
tached gentleman, laid his arm on my mane 
and said to Joe: 

''And so, my friend, they’ll not let you take 
part in the steer-roping contest ; what’s the 
trouble? Perhaps I can arrange it. Just wait 
here a moment and let me see what I can do.” 

The gentleman then turned to the judges, 
saluted them, and advanced and engaged them 
in conversation for a few minutes, then came 
back to us, smiling, and said : 

"It’s all arranged, my friend ; you are en- 
tered ; they have placed you at the foot of the 
list. I wish you success.” 

Joe and me then went over to the corral 
where the steers to be roped were confined. 
They were a small, runty lot of Mexicans, all 
of them, except one big, black fejlow, evident- 
ly from the Yankee side of the river. Joe 
said they were a "plum lively lot,” and that it 
would hustle us ponies to catch them. He 
sat down in the grass, cross-legged, beside the 


68 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


corral, along with five Mexicans and the one 
young Apache, who were entered in the con- 
test. They rolled and smoked cigarettes and 
discussed the merits of their respective ponies, 
of rawhide as against the grass rope used by 
the Yankee, or double as against single cinch 
saddles, and other matters of interest to cow 
boys. 

Some one from the grand stand called out 
the. names of the contestants : 

/'Pedro Perez, Huascar di Don Juala, Tapia 
Caballero, M. de Espanol, Nunez Larruga, 
Apache Kid, and Three D. Joe.’' They were 
called before the judges and the simple rules 
of the contest stated to them. Each should 
have one trial only. He should stand at a 
designated place, the steers should be stirred 
up, when one selected at random would be 
released, chased toward the open plain, and 
when the animal crossed a line which was 
marked on the ground, eighty feet from the 
horseman, a pistol would be fired as a signal 
that he was to go. The animal must be las- 
soed, thrown, and securely tied down. The 
one doing this in the briefest time was to be 
the winner of the prize. 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


6q 


It was scarcely necessary to have stated the 
rules, as not one of the seven, except, perhaps, 
the little Apache, but had many times taken 
part in similar contests. 

‘'Pedro Perez bawled out the big Mexi- 
can marshal. 

Pedro mounted and stood at the post, the 
coil of his sixty-foot rawhide riatta lying 
loosely in his left hand, while his right shook 
free a long, gracefully drooping loop. A 
cloud of dust arose in the corral, where the 
cattle were being stirred up, the gate opened 
and closed quickly behind a flying steer, which 
headed swiftly’ for the open range. 

A pistol shot rang out as the animal crossed 
the line, and Pedro’s Mexican mustang 
sprang forward under spur. He was a good 
pony; the rawhide circled above the long 
horns and then dropped about the neck; then 
something occurred so quickly that the detail 
could hardly be caught. The steer lay on its 
side, Pedro lying across the body, the mus- 
tang straining on the rope ; then Pedro sprang 
up, threw his sombrero high in the air, a sig- 
nal to the time-keepers that the job was done. 


70 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


Not badly done, either, Pedro, not badly done. 
Fifty-two seconds. 

“Huascar di Danjuala,'' was the next call of 
the marshal. Huascar failed to catch his steer 
and was out of the running. 

Tapia Caralata was the next. He showed 
up well with the rope, cut the time to forty- 
eight seconds, and came in glowing and confi- 
dent that this would not be beaten, but he had 
beaten himself, his steer was dead, and, laying 
the blame on his pony, he bled its sides and 
flanks with the spurs. 

''Juan Caballero.’’ Juan rode a fine Pinto 
pony, and his selected steer ran swift and 
straight. Tt was a good pony, and Juan was 
a good rider and roper, but he roweled that 
pony outrageously. He made a nice clean 
throw and caught his steer nicely, and the 
Pinto threw him beautifully, as nice as I 
could have done it, and then he stood as a 
rock, holding the brute while Juan tied it. 
The time was cut to forty-two seconds. 

"Nunez Larruga,” was next called. He was 
a tall, lithe, handsome fellow, and as he dart- 
ed forward at the report of the pistol, his out- 
fit with its profusion of silver ornaments glit- 


Memoirs of a Gow Pony. 


71 


tered like water in the sunshine. Nunez did 
not touch his beautiful black, but that pony 
was onto his job all right, and Nunez made a 
good throw, taking the steePs neck perfectly; 
but there was a weak place in his rope and 
when the whole weight of the running horse 
was thrown against it the rope broke. Nunez 
quickly laid that pony again alongside the 
steer and leaning far over picked up the flying 
end of the rope, tied the two ends together, 
and threw the animal. The seconds had, 
however, been flying as well as the steer, and 
the poor fellow was given no time. 

''M. de Espanol,'' was called. Espanol 
evidently thought himself better than the 
rest of the ropers. He had declined to sit 
in the grass and smoke with us, and when 
my master admired his handsome big pony, 
the gloomy Mexican gave him a cold and 
haughty stare. I thought Joe would call him 
down, but he didn’t, he merely looked him 
coolly in the eye and said-: 'T’ll see you later, 
old Don Quixote.” 

Espanol was a favorite with the aristo- 
cratic portion of the great crowd, though, 
for when he mounted and rode out he was 


72 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


greeted with a loud hand-clapping from the 
grand stand. Joe said to me: “Buck, I 
guess that fellow must be a Big Bug, but 
he’ll have to be a good deal bigger than he is 
to beat us.” 

He rode out to the post like a big chief, 
and an already winner; Joe was watching 
him closely, and I heard him murmur : 
“Damned old dufifer.” I was hoping that 
he would be given the big black steer, but 
I saw the gate shut squarely in the face of 
the animal when he was about to bolt out, 
and I saw it invitingly opened to the smallest 
and easiest one. When the pistol shot rang, 
and the powerful hind-quarters of his pony 
began work, it was a mighty few seconds 
until Espanol let go his rope. The heavy 
rope missed the steer entirely and swung 
around in front of the pony, and the next 
jump his hind feet were snared. Then there 
followed as pretty an exhibition of riotous 
bucking as I ever saw on either side the Rio 
Grande. I. don’t believe that Old Baldy him- 
self could have beaten it even in his best 
days. I thought I knew a good deal about 
the art, but that pony showed me some steps 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


73 


that I didn't know. Espanol's hat, with its 
dozens of tinkling silver bells about the brim, 
fell off, and the mustang planted his sharp 
hoofs upon it, all the time bawling ridicu- 
lously. Hundreds of voices from one part 
of the grounds shouted encouragement to the 
rider, while from another part went up a roar 
of voices encouraging the horse. Toe rolled 
in the grass at my feet laughing until I 
thought he'd get a fit sure, but he steadied 
himself, and loud above the roar came his 
voice : 

“Go after him, Bronk, go after him !" 
Then Espanol's tight-fitting velvet jacket 
ripped up the back, and when Joe saw the 
flaps flopping with every plunge of the crazy 
mustang, and saw Espanol riding, now 
astride the pommel and now on the cantle 
of his gorgeous saddle, all his former dignity 
and grace a thing of the past, he yelled out 
to him: 

“You're a goner, old sore-head, you're a 
goner!" Sure enough he was, for just then 
he landed in a heap on the ground. Eriends 
flocked to his assistance and he staggered 
away, and I saw no more of him. Joe, the 


74 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


tears streaming down his cheeks, gave me a 
friendly slap on the flank and said : 

''Wasn’t that a circus, though. Buck? I 
wouldn’t have missed it for a month’s pay.” 

There were left but two now, the little, 
quiet Apache and master; there were five 
steers still in the corral, four medium sized 
Mexicans and the big black American. 

"Apache Kid” was called. With an air 
of confidence Kid took his place. It was 
mighty few clothes he wore, but he sat his 
pony beautifully, and if master had not been 
in the contest I should have wanted the lad 
to win. The steers were again mixed. 
Master said : 

"If they give the Indian that big black, 
and he ties to him, there’ll be trouble sure.’’ 
And there was. 

Everybody saw that they tried to hold back 
the black brute for Joe, but the animal was 
now in a frenzy, and when the gate was 
opened he charged straight for it, knocking 
his companions out of the way and riding 
them down, burst through, and was free. 
He did not seem to run fast, but there was 
a power in his movements which looked dan- 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 75 

geroiis for the little pony and his slim brown 
rider. There fell a dead silence; I guess 
everybody felt as I did, that something un- 
pleasant would occur. You see it was seven 
hundred and fifty, may be eight hundred 
pounds of pony against twelve hundred, may 
be thirteen hundred pounds of steer. The 
odds were too great. 

When the pistol was fired the boy sat 
free in his saddle and shook opt a long loop 
of as pretty a rawhide as I ever saw, and, 
without swinging it at all, rode straight to 
the side of the steer, so close that the naked 
brown leg of the rider brushed against the 
shining black hide. 

Kid’s pony was snow white, he himself 
brown, and the steer black, and they made 
a pretty picture for the few jumps they took 
side by side before the catastrophe came. 
Joe said : 

''No one ever accused an Apache of lack 
of nerve, but that kid takes the cake.” 

It certainly did take nerve to tie one end 
of his rope to the pommel of his saddle and 
put the noose at the other end about that 
steer’s neck; but that is just what that kid 


76 Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 

did. He did it so smoothly and with so little- 
fuss, that I was surprised when the little 
white shot to the front, and just what I ex- 
pected to happen did happen. There wasn’t 
power enough on the rope, the steer was 
simply thrown sideways a little and his 
course changed, and when the rope tightened' 
again it was with a vicious snap. It caught 
pony and rider otf guard ; the white pony 
and brown rider fell in a confused and dust 
hidden heap, but the pony sprang to his feet,, 
bewildered and surprised, for he had been 
unsaddled. His saddle was dragging through 
the sage and greasewood behind the flying 
steer, at the end of the riatta. The horse- 
hair cinchas had broken. 

Kid, bruised and bleeding, but with coun- 
tenance as placid and unruffled as though he 
sat in his own tepee, shook himself free of 
those who would have helped him, painfully 
made his way back to the corral, where he 
again sat in the grass. His wife, a wee 
brown mite of a girl, her face painted hand- 
somely, her slender form hidden beneath a 
beautiful Nava joe blanket, crawled to his 
side and sat in silence while Joe patted the 



THEY MADE A PRETTY PICTURE.’’ page 75, 


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Memoirs of a Coav Pony. 


79 


naked brown shoulder of the bruised boy, 
saying : ''Good boy, good boy.’^ 

The lad tried to roll a cigarette, but his 
right arm was on a strike and hung limp at 
his side, but little "Paint Face,’’ as Joe 
called his wife, rolled the smokes for him. 
Rifle shots were heard in the distance; horse- 
men came bringing the wrecked saddle; they 
had killed the steer in order to recover it. 

It was now Joe’s turn and mine. Forty- 
two seconds to beat. The party of Ameri- 
cans had joined us at the corral, and Joe was 
drawing his grass rope backward and for- 
ward under his instep, taking out the kinks 
and twists. Someone said to Joe: 

"Can you beat forty-two seconds?” 

Joe answered: "Well, now, in this business, 
skill counts, of course, but after all it is 
largely a matter of luck. No man is any 
good if he is down on his luck; I’m afraid 
I’m short of it to-day. Forty-two seconds is 
not dangerous time, but a lot of things may 
happen that a fellow don’t expect. There 
was that Greaser Larruga, he would have 
done the job in mighty quick time if his rope 
hadn’t broken ; then there is the matter of 


8o 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


horse. Kid’s horse was too light and not 
onto his job. Kid himself is a dandy and I 
wish he’d done better; he deserved to. I’m 
long on horse, though, and I’ll do the best 
I can.” 

“Buck’s all right, is he?” was asked. 

“The best on earth,” replied Joe, who 
always did know a good pony. 

There was in the party of Americans a 
handsome girl; her cheeks were aflame and 
her eyes snapped with excitement. She took 
from the bosom of her waist a pretty little 
red, white and blue badge and coolly pinned 
it to Joe’s breast saying: 

“That’s for luck, Mr. Three D. Joe.” 

Joe looked confused, foolish, and pleased. 
He touched the brim of his sombrero, and 
replied : 

“I ought to win, wearing that.” 

I was nervous, but Joe was as cool and 
deliberate as I ever saw him, and it seemed 
to me he never was slower. Joe didn’t have 
to tell me what to do ; I knew, and he knew 
that I knew. He gave me a slack rein, and 
when the pistol was fired I placed him in 
short order right at the flank of his steer. 



> > 


“that’s for luck, three d. joe 


page 8o 





Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 83 

but he swung and swung his rope until I 
thought he never would throw it. My heart 
thumped so that I could hear and feel it, 
then he touched me with the spurs, just the 
faintest little touch, I could scarcely feel it. 
Well, I heard that steer grunt when he struck 
the ground, for I had thrown him pretty 
quick, and I knew he wouldn’t struggle until 
master had time to tie his legs.” 

“Back up. Buck ; back, sir !” he yelled, and 
I slackened the rope. Joe took it from the 
steer’s neck, where he lay, with three legs 
tied together. How good I felt then. There 
on the corral fence, strung out like crows 
on the limb of a dead cottonwood tree, was 
the American party shouting and clapping 
their hands, and waving handkerchiefs, and 
I knew we had won. 

Thirty-eight seconds. As we walked back 
to the corral, Joe patted my neck and said: 

“We did show those Greasers a trick, 
didn’t we. Old Fellow?” 

They all shook hands with Joe and petted 
and praised me, and it paid me for all the 
hard work I did to get Joe there. These 
are the happiest moments of a pony’s life. 


84 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


when he knows that he has done his duty and 
done it well, and that his boss appreciates 
him. I again thought: ‘'How alike are 
ponies and bosses.’’ The pony colt and the 
boy boss think their frivolous joys all there 
is in the world worth living for; but when 
maturity comes to them, they find that the 
joys of those immature days were trivial and 
unsatisfying compared with the richer joy 
and more solid satisfaction of a certain sense 
of duty well done. 

The winner of the contest was now called 
to the judges’ stand to receive the prize, 
which was a beautifully ornamented Mexican 
saddle. It fairly blazed with gold and silver 
ornaments. They said that the gold star on 
the pommel alone cost one hundred dollars. 
Joe whispered in my ear: 

“This makes me tired, don’t it you. Buck?” 
but it didn’t. 

Joe’s countrymen admired the saddle and 
wished to buy it, but master wouldn’t sell it 
to them ; he said : 

“I’ve no use for the saddle, I don’t want 
it, but I think I’ll not sell it, though perhaps 
I can arrange for you ; wait a mom.ent.” 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


85 


A little dried up, old Indian woman sat on 
the ground near by ; her face was the color 
of grass in winter; it was seamed with wrin- 
kles, they laying in folds ; eyes bleared and 
dim ; she was toothless, and she mumbled 
when she spoke to the half dozen half -naked 
children for whom she cared. 

That master of mine raised the old crone 
to her unsteady feet and led her to the saddle, 
saying : 

'T give you the saddle, Granny, it is yours 
to do what you will with it, but I would like 
if you would sell it to my friends here.'’ 
Then he checked her flow of gratitude. 
'‘Granny here will sell you the saddle," said 
Jack, addressing the Americans, 

The wrinkled, brown and trembling old 
hands clutched the silver fortune with pa- 
thetic eagerness. She would again have 
poured forth her gratitude, and would have 
called down on his head the blessings of all 
the saints in the calendar. I thought Joe 
-should have allowed her to do it, too; they 
might have helped him sometime in the fu- 
ture, I don't know, but Joe hushed her, and 


86 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


gently led her back to her little brown flock, 
and bade her good-bye, saying: 

“Adios, Granny. You are a homely old 
critter, but God bless you just the same.’’ 

Master took the little red, white and blue 
badge in his hand, and would have returned 
it to the pretty girl who gave it him. He 
stood before her, bare-headed, and embar- 
rassed, and said : 

“This brought the luck you wished me ; 
perhaps I had now better return it to you.” 

The girl with the flaming cheeks and 
bright eyes took the badge. I hated her 
then ; but when she pinned it again on Joe’s 
breast, and smiled up at him, and said : “For 
luck before ; this time for you,” I loved her. 

Master’s sombrero swept the ground as he 
bowed low before her.^ saying never a word. 
He swung clumsily into the saddle, and we 
rode away out of the crowds, into the sage 
brush. There he stood beside me a long 
time, holding the badge in his hand; I guess 
he was thinking. He looked at me foolishly 
and weakly, and said : 

“Buck, I can’t throw this thing away, can 
I? You saw where it came from, ofif her 



GRANNY 






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Memoirs OF a Cow Pony. 


89 


breast. Pll not wear it clown there amongst 
that infernal rabble, would you ? Let's go 
home.’’ The next morning I was in the 
Three D herd. Joe was on duty again as 
usual. 



CHAPTER VII. 

Ave Marie. 

Of course, all cowboys can sing to a 
bunch of cattle while on night herd. They 
have to do it to keep the cattle quiet, but 
Joe could sing strange songs and tunes, in 
a strange language, which' none of us under- 
stood, and he sang them so sweetly that even 
a pony's eyes moistened. When he was 
singing those strange songs, he grew sober 
and tender and didn't swear. He seemed 
like a woman then. 

One night we were holding a big bunch of 
beeves. It was as dark as utter blackness ; the 


90 



Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


91 


cattle were ugly, milling round and round. 
They led off here, and led out there. Half of 
the outfit was on night herd, reenforcing the 
usual night herders, and above the grind of 
twenty thousand hoofs, above the click of 
thousands of horns, arose the incessant lul- 
ling drone of the cow boys’ attempted songs. 

The only way we could tell where one’s 
mates were, was by the singing of the men, 
and the only way the night herders could tell 
where the herd was, was by the dull rumble 
and grumble and roar which arose like the 
sound of a distant waterfall. 

Of course, they had to rely on us ponies 
to turn back the drifts, and we did it. To- 
ward morning, however, a gentle rain began 
'falling. Joe said it would draw the elec- 
tricity from the air and that the cattle would 
soon lie down. Sure enough, when they had 
become thoroughly wet they became quieter, 
and at length bedded. A white mist rolled 
down over us, a heavy silence settled in the 
valley; then Joe’s voice arose out of the 
darkness, the silence, and the mists, — arose 
trembling on the night air, filling the valley 


92 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


with sounds so sweet that they went straight 
to the heart, like the plaint of a girl child. 

The song was one of those strange ones, 
oddly out of place there. It began : ^‘Ave 
Maria A 

The rain cloud drifted past. The motion- 
less form of the sleeping herd and the shapes 
of the night herders, standing like grim 
statues at intervals about, slowly grew upon 
the vision. So absorbed was I in the voice 
of the singer, that I had not noticed the 
approach of a horse and rider from camp, 
which was at a spring not far distant, but 
when the last notes of the song had sobbed 
themselves away, there at my side was 
A1 Taddigan, the range manager. 

'^Joe, there is a man up at camp wants to 
see you,’’ he said 

''So?” was Joe’s query. 

"Yes, after you came on herd a party of 
the owners came in on us to look over the 
shipment. When you began your Dago song 
one of them sprang up, saying: 'My God, I 
know that voice. I’d know it among a mil- 
lion. For God’s sake, Taddigan, take me 
to him.’ He ‘started straight down here. 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


93 


Why, he'd have stampeded the herd sure. 
The only way I could stop him was to come 
after you myself." 

‘'So? What's his name?" asked Joe. 

Taddigan gave his name. I do not remem- 
ber it now. Joe spoke again: 

“Al, what's this pony worth?" 

“What the devil has that got to do with it? 
Go up to camp. I'll stand your trick out." 

“What is this buckskin worth?" Joe again 
asked. 

“About fifty, I guess ; but I don't see — " 

“Cut that out, Al. You owe me seventy. 
I give you that for Buck. Good-bye, shake." 

“Where in are you going?" 

“From one hell to another. It's just one 
good long ride for Buck and I from here." 

With a snap of the reins, quite unlike Joe, 
he swung me sharply around and rode away 
southward, toward the Rio Grande. Slip- 
ping and sliding across the greasy alkali 
flats, struggling through the pasty gumbo, 
up hill and down, at a tired canter, always 
to the southward, with never a pause, for 
fourteen long hours we journeyed. 

Ofif saddle and bridle at the Hog Ranch. 


94 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


How I hated that place! It was the resort 
of all the Mexican, negro, mixed blood and 
white cutthroats and outlaws of the border; 
the home of a score of shameless women of 
every hue to be found in that wide land of 
varied shades and colors. 

I had often heard that the life of him who 
entered within its black walls was valued 
no more than a pinch of alkali dust. We 
were no strangers; I had brought Joe here 
many times before, and now we were treated 
with a storm of welcome from the inmates, 
mostly women, though, who flocked out and 
around us, as Joe removed my saddle and 
bridle. 

It was not the old Joe whom they now 
greeted. The old time merry laughter had 
forsaken his lips; likewise the bright jest. 
He cast an ugly look at the half dozen Mex- 
icans leaning against the mud walls of the 
shack, and bade them : 

'‘Set me some grub. Pm hungry ;’' then 
he laid his arm about my neck and nose, his 
cheek against my cheek, and said these strange 
words : 'Adios, old trusty, God bless you. If 
all the world was as true as you, there would 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


95 


have been no black sheep in our family, and 
Pd not be here. But say, Buck, if I cross the 
Dark River before you do, and I do get inside 
Old St. Peter's Corral, — guess Pll not get 
there. Buck, — when you come over, you hunt 
me up. If they don't let you inside the pearly 
gates, just you show your yellow nose over 
the corral fence where I can see it, and I'll 
put up such a talk as will fix it for you. I'll 
tell the old saint how trusty and brave you 
was down here, through fair weather and 
foul, when there was grub in the pony chuck- 
box and when it was empty; how you never 
told a lie, either by look or deed, never drank 
budge, never faltered in your duty, although 
it's mighty little you've had for the doing of 
it. And say. Buck, if I can't get you in, by 
the eternals ! I'll come out to you, and we'll 
have such a ride as we never had before. 

'Breast the Black Flood, Buck, without 
shrinking and without fear when your tim.e 
to cross comes. There's better pastures on 
the other side for such as you' old fellow, 
•than you've ever known. And now, old friend, 
Adios, adios. God bless you.' " 


96 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


It was dark now. I hung about close to 
the ranch, hoping that he would come out 
and leave that devil’s den. Tired and hungry 
as I was, steady and strong, I would have 
gladly borne him away. I heard the sound 
of fiddles and the shuffle of dancing feet; I 
heard the click of ivory and the clink of 
glass ; I heard strange oaths in strange 
tongues ; I heard songs of gaiety and yells 
of misery, the thick voices of drunken des- 
peradoes and the musical tones of Southern 
women mingled in the infernal medley. 

Then came a dead silence for a moment. 
The crackle of small calibre guns ; the 
sullen, dull roar of a heavier weapon, such as 
the American cowboys carry — one, two, 
three, four, five, six, and I recognized the 
report of Joe’s 45’s. One was empty, but 
Joe carried a pair of them. 

The lights went out ; women fled through 
the night; men reeled forth, staggering, 
falling, in silence. Points of flame flashed 
through door and window. 

“One, two, three.” I kept tally on Joe’s 
gun. Flames burst out of the thatched roof ; 
smoke poured from door and window, — 


ROPING FOR PRIZES 


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Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 99 

"‘four, five,’' — but one shot left. Why don’t 
Joe come out of that furnace? 

But one shot left. It came out of the 
midst of the smoke and flames. I knew the 
end had come ; had Joe reached that other 
hell which he sought? Quien sabef 

The morning dawned on a scene of death 
and desolation. Strange odors arose from 
the ’smoking ruins. Haggard women, half 
clothed, crept furtively back from places of 
concealment ; they gathered the dead and 
bore them into the shade, closing the sightless 
eyes. 

They crossed . themselves and muttered 
prayers. A squad of rangers galloped up 
and came suddenly upon the row of bodies, 
lying there, side by side. 

They checked their ponies so suddenly that 
the dust spouted from under their feet and 
settled upon the upturned faces of the dead. 

“Well done, Americano Joe ; be you living 
or dead. Nothing for us to do here,” spoke 
the captain of the squad, then they galloped 
away as they had come, leaving the dead 
men to be cared for by the living women. 


t-OfC. 


lOO 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


I hung about all that day and the succeed- 
ing night, hoping, hoping; although I knew 
that there was none, that Joe might come for 
me; then, sad hearted, almost weary of life. 
I wandered slowly back to the old life at the 
ranch. 


CHAPTER VIIL 
He Was a Girl. 

1 now again entered 
upon the usual routine 
work of a cow ranch; I 
was only too glad to do it. 
for I had had enough ex- 
citement and tragedy to 
last me for the remainder 
of my days ; I longed for 
the commonplace only. 

The season had been a 
good one ; the calf crop 
was enormous ; every 
nook and corner of the range must be searched 
and these jack-rabbit-like infants must be 
caught, ear-marked, and branded. It was much 
like a beef round-up, but vastly harder work 
on us ponies. Many round-up outfits were re- 
quired for the work, but the outfit I was with 



lor 


102 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


was the home ranch outfit and was in charge 
of a blonde young Yankee named Jack Pres- 
cott. He was an Eastern boy, of good family 
and education. Years before he had hooked 
up with the — 7 — (bar 7 bar) brand people, 
and had grown in their service, until now he 
was foreman. A very different man he was 
from Joe; he was quiet, clean, never talked 
loud or used coarse or profane language. 

The hardest work for us was after the 
rounding-up of the cattle, and consisted in 
catching the calyes for branding. When the 
circles had been ridden, and everything with- 
in them had been bunched as near as possible 
to wood and water, the pony herd would be 
driven into the rope corral and each man 
would catch his best, or ^Toping horse,’’ and 
it was then spur and rope. It is astonishing 
what an amount of hard riding it would 
sometimes take to catch a calf. They would 
run so close alongside of, or underneath the 
bellies of their mothers that it was almost 
impossible for the best man to get a rope 
about their necks or legs, but once they were 
snared, it was all speed for the fire and the 
hot irons. • 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 103 

I have heard them say that when I started 
for the fire with a calf tied to the pommel of 
my saddle, that calf struck the high places 
only, and I guess that that was true, for the 
calf would pull much easier while going at 
full speed than when it was on its feet and 
pulling back. 

When the round-up was finished, the 
ponies were pretty well worn down. The 
beef round-up would soon be on, and Jack, 
prince of cow men that he was, knew that 
he must have fresh, strong horses for the 
work, and he accordingly detailed five of his 
men to go up into the Indian Territory after 
a fresh bunch. I was one of the ponies 
taken ; my rider was a little fellow, too light 
for round-up work, and, as was proven in 
the end, in every way unfitted for the busi- 
ness. I do not think that he was more than 
sixteen years old, and I have carried many 
men weighing twice as much as he. His 
face was delicate and fair, or would have 
been, had it not been tamed and seared by 
the hot winds. .His hands and feet were 
small as a child’s, and the voice was low and 
girlish. The lad shunned the rough sports 


104 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


of his companions, though he was always 
ready for work. 

The boy’s quiet ways aroused all the 
thoughtless cruelty with which the hide of 
the average cowboy is always filled to burst- 
ing ; they thought it smart to play coarse 
practical jokes on him, and the pathetic 
patience with which he bore them made it 
all the funnier, so his tormentors seemed to 
think. It was cactus in the kid’s boots and 
gumbo in his hair ; it was salt in his coflfee 
and horned toads in his blankets the livelong 
day and the livelong night. 

I never heard the lad complain to them, 
but if they had not been blind brutes they 
would have seen that they were breaking the 
boy’s heart. More than once when we were 
alone did he clasp my neck, in his arms and 
burst out sobbing: 

“Oh, Ruck, I can’t stand this life, can I? 
Why didn’t they kill me back there in the 
desert as they did my poor mother, then I 
might have rested by her side. But this life 
even is better than the one they tried to make 
me lead, ain’t it? The end will come some- 
time, soon I hope,” and then there would 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


105 


•come a wan little smile on the tightening lips. 

We received the horses and started back 
with them for the ranch, driving hard and 
guarding them closely, for the Indian Nation 
at that time was the paradise of the outlaw 
of every description, and Big Cy. Roberts, 
our head man, said he ''didn’t propose to 
lose his ponies.” We had been out on the 
home trail about three or four days and had 
not seen a human being save our own party. 
It was evening, and camp had been made just 
as the big, red, hot sun was touching the 
tops of the grass in the far west. A precious 
spring bubbled from the ground, filling the 
air with as sweet music as ever tickled the 
ear of thirsty man or pony ; the packs had 
heen stripped from the backs of the pack 
ponies and they had wandered away to join 
the herd, which grazed in the valley a half 
mile below. Five tired saddle ponies stood, 
their bridle reins hanging loose, a sign to 
them that they were not to wander. The 
wranglers squatted by the tiny camp-fire ; 
supper was almost ready; laughter, jest and 
hanter floated free from lip to lip. Suddenly 
the earth throbbed under the hammering hoof- 


io6 Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 

beats of our pony herd and every man sprang 
to his horse ; what they saw was our pony 
herd, half hidden by a dust cloud, sweeping 
fast down the valley, while horsemen darted 
in and out of the dust, urging the stampeded 
horses to greater speed. 

There was no need for orders ; every man 
understood his duty, and five wranglers 
sprang to saddle; five wranglers raced as 
though their lives were the stake after the 
stolen herd. As they rode, four of the five 
riders tightened the cartridge belts about 
their loins, and twirled the cylinders of their 
45’s, making sure that each carried the full 
six shots. One, my little rider, bore no gun. 
I hung back, thinking that he had no business 
in the melee which I saw was sure to follow, 
but it was no use, for he forced me full 
abreast of the leader. One mile, two miles, 
three miles, under strain and spur. We 
were drawing up on them, and it was only 
a long pistol shot between us now. Men 
dropped back out of the dust cloud, steadied 
their well trained horses, and — ^bang, bang, 
bang, came the first pistol shots. The dust 
clouds swept on ; never a rein was drawn. 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


107 


The only effect of the shots was to draw 
from the lips of Big Cy. the first words ut- 
tered since the race began. Cool and quiet, 
he said : 

''Ride low, boys, and spread out.’’ We had 
been riding closely bunched. 

The valley was narrowing fast; the dust 
cloud hung far behind the racing herd; pur- 
suers were now mere phantoms racing 
through the gloom of gathering darkness and 
settling clouds of dust out of which the re- 
ports of the six-shooters came with a dull and 
muffled sound. Ahead it could be seen that 
the valley narrowed to a mere pass or gap, 
and then that rider of mine, lying low on my 
neck, swung me to one side, and, cutting my 
sides with the spurs, rode like a demon 
around the flank of the herd and out into the 
clear air in its front. There in the gap he 
faced about in a brave effort to stop the 
stampeding horses. 

Pistol shots rang from wall to wall, and 
bullets reached ponies as well as men for 
whom they were intended. As men and 
horses fell, the followers stumbled over their 


io8 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


bodies, mangling, bruising and crushing the 
fallen. 

The chase was too hot, the onslaught too 
fierce for the thieves; they dropped the stolen 
herd and fled, what was left of them, and 
as they did they leaned low over the manes 
of their ponies, holding in their hands hot, 
smoking and empty pistols. 

My little master lay at my feet, and I saw 
a smile on the pinched face as he said : “The 
# end has come, Buck.^’ 

His comrades gathered around the dying 
boy, but it was Big Cy who raised the little 
head, saying: “Laddie, Laddie, I called you 
a coward. Pm sorry I did; you are braver 
than any of us. Forgive me.’’ 

Softly the dying boy replied to the appeal 
of the big foreman : “I did my best, I tried 
to stop them.” 

One small, round, white arm was shattered 
by an ill-sent outlaw’s bullet ; the other feebly 
drew the big face of the boss down to the 
white lips, which whispered into his startled 
ears a secret, which none had known but me. 

“My God, why didn’t you tell me before? 
I wouldn’t have allowed you to come here.” 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 109 

''IPs all right, yes, all right.’' came the an- 
swer, "only, don’t undress me ; I forgive ” 

He had reached the end of his trail. 

Four sober faced men, in the gloom of a 
moonless night, gathered around a. shallow 
grave ; within, wrapped in coarse woolen 
blankets, lay a poor, little, slim and broken 
body. Awkwardly the men stood there, feel- 
ing that something should be said, then Big 
Cy spoke : "Say a prayer, some of you men.” 

Each looked helplessly in the face of the 
other. They were as brave men as ever drew 
rein, but this was asking too much of them. 
Then the big fellow stepped to the head of the 
open grave, knelt and prayed : 

"Good Lord, I don’t believe that I’m fitten 
to pray, but the parson down at Dodge told 
us that the prayers of even such sinners as we- 
uns are, will be heard by you, and so, here 
goes. I want to apologize to this poor, dead 
boy for all the mean things I ever done to 
him, and evSpecially for calling ’im a coward. 
He sure had more sand ’n any of us. I’m 
sorry he didn’t tell me he was a girl before 
he was hurted. I wouldn’t have allowed him 
to ride into the scrap if I’d knowed it. 


no 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


“Forgive me for it, Lord. Forgive these 
wranglers for all the mean things they done 
to him. They didn’t know either, Lord, and 
honestly they ain’t such an ornery lot as they 
seem to be. I know that they are tollable 
tough, I know that, but their hearts are all. 
right. I guess the kid’ll be happier with 
you. Lord, than he was with us. She told me 
there in the gap, when she whispered to me, 
that she wanted to go to her mother, and to 
you. 

“Take her. Lord, and be good to her, and 
we’ll be your friends as long as we live. 
Amen.” 

Months later I passed the spot again. The 
mound of rocks above the lonely grave of the 
girl cowboy was undisturbed. 



CHAPTER IX. 

Senorita Inez. 

On our return to the ranch I was takeir 
into Jack’s string of ponies. I was glad to 
be Jack’s pony, as he was a kind master. The 
other ponies called me a ^'Headquarters’ Pet,” 
but I didn’t mind that at all so long as Jack 
liked me. 

One evening I stood on three feet, resting 
saddled and bridled, tired and hot, at the 
ranch-house door, and was wanting a post to 
lean against. Jack, too, lounged upon a bench 


III 


II2 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


near by, tired also, for we had been doing 
some pretty lively work that day. 

Down the Wingate trail rolled a bunch of 
dust, which mostly hid from view a buck- 
board drawn by a slashing big pair of Mexi- 
can mustangs, driven by a dried-up specimen 
from the other side of the Rio Grande. Be- 
side the old man on the driver’s seat was a 
person almost entirely hidden beneath a great 
veil or cloak, a ''mantilla,” Jack called it. The 
mustangs swung up to the door of the ranch 
house at full speed, where the old mummy 
brought them to a full stop instantly. 

Jack arose and awaited the old man’s greet- 
ing. In broken English and cracked Spanish 
he introduced himself : 

"Senor Rodrigo Valquez, owner of the 
Coiled Serpent ranch, beyond the Rio 
Grande, the humble servant of the Senor 
Americano. Those clouds, banked over there 
above the mesa, will bring a storm; might 
we remain at the Senor Americano’s over 
night?” 

''Si, Senor.'' I guess Jack thought the 
little figure, which still remained bundled up 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 113 

on the seat, was the old Don’s wife ; I thought 
so too. 

The little thing within the veil sprang to 
the ground, but quite too lightly for the old 
Senor Rodrigo’s wife, I thought. The stern 
lines on Jack’s handsome face relaxed. He 
made a bow to the opaque figure, which gave 
itself a flirt, a shuffle and a few shakes, ex- 
actly as I have many a time seen a grouse 
do, after taking a dust bath. 

The great black veil was loosened and 
tossed carelessly back upon the buckboard, 
just as though she was accustomed to hav- 
ing some one follow her about and wait 
upon her, and I guess she was. Jack was 
bowing almost to the ground now. 

'T have but a poor place, not fit for the 
Senor and Senorita, but such as it is you 
own it. I will be forever honored if you 
will remain until the storm, which will surely 
break within the hour, has passed and the 
trails are dried.” 

I no longer stood upon three legs, but 
upon all four, well set under my body, head 
up, ears erect. I didn’t want to disgrace 
Jack. 


II4 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


I have seen many women in my day, but 
I solemnly declare I have seen none to com- 
pare with the little Senorita Inez, the old 
Don’s daughter, who stood there, cool, com- 
posed, dainty and neat as though just out 
of a trunk. 

She was not more than five feet tall, I 
think, but oh ! so beautiful. There was a 
superb suppleness and grace in every line and 
movement ; her rich sunshiny brown hair 
hung in one long braid, and the deep brown 
eyes matched well with the rich warm South- 
ern complexion which freshened and flamed 
at cheek and throat, under Jack’s ardent gaze, 
for, while in bad Spanish, Jack blundered his 
hot welcome to the old Don, he still looked 
Upon the daughter. 

As I watched her beautiful eyes droop 
and half hide behind the long lashes, I some- 
how thought of an old friend. He was an 
iron grey, and foaled on the same range as 
myself, and was the worst bucker I have ever 
known. When about to be mounted he 
would stand stock still, eyes half closed, as 
though the entire matter was one of total 
indifference to him, but watching closely. 


HE WAS THE WORST BUCKER I EVER KNEW. II4 










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Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


117 


under the drooping eyelids, one might catch 
a suspicious sidewise glance which told us, 
who knew him well, that his rider, unless 
the very best, 'must pull leather. I thought 
I caught the same look in the downcast eyes 
of . the senorita, and I marveled : ''What will 
the end be ?'' 

With the free step of an unbroken colt, 
she stepped up to me and laid the smallest, 
softest, and warmest hand I had ever felt 
upon my neck and nose, and murmured in 
clean cut English : "What a beautiful pony !’' 

Jack and I both nearly fell down to hear 
her speak in our tongue. We thought she, 
of course, spoke only Spanish. The truth 
was, that the old man had met her at Fort 
Wingate as she was returning from a school 
in the States where she had been taught not 
only the language of her Northern sisters, 
but also a few things besides. 

That sweetly caressing touch of the little 
brown hand, and the murmured appreciation 
of my good looks, settled the matter with 
me and I straightway became her pony lover. 
Had she then asked them of me, I would 
willingly have given her my teeth, and I 


ii8 Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 

knew that if Jack ever felt the touch of that 
hand, he was a goner too. 

The storm broke furiously. All the next 
day sheets of wind-driven rain, like grey 
ghosts, chased across the plains and forbade 
travel. Jack stuck close to the house that 
day, as was his duty, entertaining his guests, 
and I saw him once only. He came out where 
I was, and, patting my dripping neck, said : 

''Well, P)Uck, she’s a hummer, ain’t she?” 

I knew he referred to the Senorita Inez, 
but as I didn’t know what a "hummer” was, 
I made no reply. He turned his face to the 
storm, and bearing his curly blonde head, 
continued : 

"Go it, old P)Oreas, stick to it so the old 
devil can’t get away for a week.” 

The next morning, though it still rained 
torrents, the old Don Rodrigo, with mighty 
Spanish oaths, swore he’d go, though the 
heavens split wide open and all the dammed 
water there was up there came down ! Go 
he did, and in the midst of splashings of 
mud and mumbled Spanish oaths, the old 
fellow bravely took the lines and curbed the 
restless mustangs. Jack fairly lifted the 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 119 

Senorita to her seat, and I plainly saw a 
little hand steal out from under the envel- 
oping tarpaulins into Jack^s sinewy, freckled 
hand, and he clasped it for an instant in his. 

I felt in my bones that there were com- 
plications and tragedies looming up on Jack's 
trail and mine. Jack would have guided 
the old man by a shorter route which fol- 
lowed the -gravelly divide, so that lie might 
avoid the slippery gumbo bottoms, but the 
old fellow would have none of it, so Jack 
stood there watching, with a strange wistful 
look on his face, watching them fade into 
the distance, then he snatched the dripping 
sombrero from his head, pressed his lips to 
the wet brim, and with a long sweep of his 
arm toward the fast disappearing buckboard, 
wafted his first lover's kiss to his sweet- 
heart. Out from the buckboard fluttered 
something tiny and white. 

Jack understood it. The next day Jack 
came out where I was, carrying a small box 
in which was some dry stuff, which rustled 
and rattled when shaken. He held it up to 
me and said: ''Eat it. Buck, it is good." 

I smelled of it, and it did smell good, but 


120 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


I had never eaten anything but grass and 
brush and cactus and such stuff, and I didn't 
want it. Jack insisted that I should eat it 
and he opened my mouth and filled it with 
the stuff. It tasted good. He said it was 
oats, and that it would make me fat and 
strong; so just to please him I ate it. I 
liked it, too. 

Every day after that he brought me out 
a feed of oats, and how I did fatten. Why, 
I felt like an unbroken three-year-old. For 
a couple of weeks I did nothing but lounge 
about and eat; I was wanting a good stiff 
ride, and I got it. 

Early one morning, about two or three 
o'clock, I guess. Jack saddled me, and from 
the care which he took I was satisfied that 
he had important business on hand. He tied 
a mysterious bundle on the saddle, and we 
pulled out. Slowly, now at a walk, then at 
a wolf trot with now and then, on smooth 
ground, a short canter, we stretched away 
towards the Rio. The sun blazed hot in the 
sky, and the heat rose quivering from the 
ground, looking like a swarm of bees or 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


I2I 


grasshoppers, but it was walk, trot, canter, 
with never a pause, hour after hour. 

Jack whistled and sang little snatches of 
love songs. He was happy, all unmindful 
of the black shadow which was spreading 
out and wrapping him in its fatal folds. 
Through fragrant fields of wild flowers, here 
bedecking the ground with a brilliant crim- 
son carpet, and now with white and, anon, 
with blue. Jack and I steadily put the miles 
behind us.. 

Now and then a grey wolf, startled from 
his lair, would lumber away unheeded, or an 
insolent coyote trotted off a few yards, sat 
down and stared at us. A few antelope 
waved their white flags at us, and, saving 
these, we were alone in the midst of this 
glorious ocean. 

Jack felt the beauty and the majesty of it 
all as I did ; the whistle and the song died 
away on his lips, and I was not surprised 
when at length he spoke. 

“Buck, I pity those poor mortals who 
spend their days ever between brick walls, 
and those millions of poor horses whose 
dried and iron pinched hoofs never, their 


122 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


whole lives long, have known the elastic 
feel of God’s carpet.” 

I said nothing, for fear that he would quit 
talking, and I loved to hear him talk like 
this. He continued : 

''I tell you. Buck, if I were a king and 
could make laws, Pd make one that every 
horse, after a certain service, should be 
pensioned off and given a range like this to 
live and die on.” 

‘^Are there so many horses badly treated. 
Master? I did not know it,” I responded. 

''Indeed there are. Buck, more than there 
are hairs on your yellow hide. Horses that 
are worked, abused, starved, by cruel, igno- 
rant and inhuman masters, with no possible 
relief until kindly death comes to them. It 
is a sad chapter, old fellow, a heart-breaking 
chapter. Death and misery, misery and 
death, the world over, and the world of men 
too busy to give heed. Oh, if I were but 
king.” 

What he said affected me so deeply that 
I could only reply: "But you are my king, 
master.” 

He was silent, but he stroked my neck. 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


123 


and I understood. After a long pause, he 
added : ''It is women and horses, old fellow, 
that get the worst of it in this wide world, 
ever and ever.’’ 

The sun was now well nigh overhead, and 
we were riding harder ; it was trot and canter 
now, no more walking. That was the way 
Jack always did when he had a hard ride to 
make; slow and easy at first, gradually in- 
creasing the pace, the hard push coming at 
the end. At the crown of a gravel divide 
we stopped; Jack dismounted and rearranged 
blankets and saddle, and, pointing away to 
the southward, said: 

"See that dark line away yonder, Buck? 
Well, there we’ll take a rest, and I have 
something in my pack for you.” 

Two hours later, it was off saddle on the 
banks of the same old Rio Grande. First, 
a plunge for us both, and then that myste- 
rious pack was opened. I was as curious 
as a filly to know what it contained, and was 
pleased when, from its depths, he produced 
a nice feed of oats for me. I was awfully 
glad to get them, for I was too tired to graze. 

Then out of the pack came a lunch for 


124 Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 

himself, next, what he called a “looking 
glass,” a razor, and a bar of soap. The 
way that fellow soaped and washed and 
scraped his face, just amused me, but when 
he had finished and put on a nice clean shirt, 
I was proud of him. 

The sun was drifting into the west when 
he had done, and he resaddled me. We 
forded the river and made a hard two hours’ 
ride straight into the heart of Chiuahua. 
We passed through great herds of long 
horned cattle, small, runty, ill favored 
things, all bearing the coiled serpent brand, 
then we finally came to the Coiled Serpent 
Ranch. 

It was a beautiful place, in a wild and 
extraordinary way. Everything was of 
adobe. The corral yard and garden fences 
were of adobe, the great cool stables were 
of adobe, what I could see of the house 
through the tropical wealth of encumbering 
vines and shrubbery, was also of the same 
material. Little streams of water flowed 
everywhere, cooling and moistening the 
otherwise burning atmosphere. Climbing 
rose vines festooned from gable and veran- 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


125 


dahs, painting- the dull mud with such a 
flame of color as I had never dreamed of. 
The air was redolent with a thousand sweet 
perfumes, and it seemed to me to be a fit 
home for an oriental grandee, as, in truth, 
it almost was. 

At the arched, vine-wreathed gateway 
Jack left me. As though he was master of 
it all, straight, springy and proud, he strode 
up the broad walk and on to the verandah. 
There, just as I expected, he was met by the 
Senor Rodrigo, but I was too far away to 
hear what was said, though I saw the old 
fellow bow low over Jack’s hand, and doubt- 
less he protested that while the Senor Amer- 
icano would honor him by remaining under 
his roof, he should consider himself the 
master and owner of the whole outfit. 

A peon came to take me to the stable, and 
as I turned to leave I saw the Senorita Inez 
come tripping out, light as air, beautifully 
gowned, a soft, sweet song on her lips, 
which was suddenly hushed, at seeing my 
master there, standing straight as an Apache. 

He was before her instantly, her hand in 
his, and, bending low, I saw him press a 


126 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


kiss upon the pink palm. He had bearded 
the old lion in his very lair. I was led away, 
and, in justice to that peon, I wilP say that 
I was well cared for. 

I saw no more of Jack until the next 
afternoon. He came alone for me, and there 
was a flush on his cheek and a blaze in his 
eye. I knew something had happened. He 
saddled me with a snap and vigor and in 
silence. I didn’t like that. We then rode 
the back trail slowly, and I was glad we were 
leaving, although I will confess that I too 
wanted to see the little Senorita and feel her 
hand on my neck and nose once more. Dark- 
ness fell, then about face. Just where the 
dusty roadway swept around a great jutting 
rock, we turned oflf to the left and went 
down into a sheltered and half hidden 
coulee. Here Jack dismounted, unsaddled 
me, and turned me loose to graze. There 
we waited. 

A double darkness wrapped all in gloom; 
still in -utter silence and painful expectancy 
we waited on ; then came the soft mincing 
tread of a horse, and Jack held the Senorita 
in his arms, tight pressed to his breast, in 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


127 


silence, his lips pressed to hers, and I touched 
noses with the stranger horse; it was a mare. 

''Do you know what they have done up 
there, my lover, my own ?” the Senorita said 
to my master. "Why, this is what they have 
done ; they have sent out the 'runners,’ invit- 
ing the whole countryside to a fiesta at our 
house for to-morrow. I am to be married 
then, yes, married to that cut-throat and out- 
law, Valquez. I am sold like a horse or a 
cow, aye, sold, but not yet delivered to that 
bloody renegado. Before his foul lips shall 
touch mine I shall be dead. One can always 
die, can not one. Jack? I love you. Jack, 
you only, have I not proven it? Do what 
you will with me. I follow where you lead, 
and when the end comes, and come it will, 
Jack, we may die together, may we not, dear? 
It will be sweet, oh, so sweet, to die here, 
Jack, here, on your dear breast; so much 
sweeter than to live otherwheres.” 

"You shall live, live always here,, precious 
sweetheart, live for me, and I will live for 
you. They shall not part us.” 

The mare ridden by the little miss fol- 
lowed in my tracks and I had no chance to 


128 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


speak with her. The solemn grey of the 
morning came just when we reached the 
Rio. Jack helped her to alight, and while 
he murmured hot words of fondness and 
encouragement in her willing ears, her mare 
and I breathed great draughts of the 
sweet morning air, for Jack had loosened 
our cinchas ; then I had my first good look 
at the mount of the little woman, and I 
found her a beauty. She was a rich red 
bay, her nostrils were wide open and thin; 
her eyes the same rich deep brown as those 
of her mistress. In ear, neck, form and 
limb, as clean cut and graceful as the Senor- 
ita herself. Truly a fit mount for so lovely 
a burden. 

''Jack, dear, father will follow us,’' said 
the Senorita. 

"But we will not follow the trails, dear, 
.and they cannot overtake us,” was the reply. 

"But Old Toni, dear, Old Toni, the 
Apache . trailer, father will send him. He 
'Can trail a jack rabbit, so it is said.” 

"It were better for Old Toni did he not 
Irail us,” said Jack. 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


129 


“But, dear, father, V^alquez and Martinez 
will follow, too.” 

‘'They will all be healthier to-morrow, 
dear, if they do not overtake us.” 

Down the Rio, in water to our bellies, slip- 
ping and blundering over the stony bed of 
the stream, until the treacherous quicksands 
threatened to engulf us, then dry land again. 

It was now a ride for life. There had 
been no signs of pursuit, but all felt that a 
brown shadow trotted, trotted unerringly 
and swiftly on our trail. The perils were 
too momentous for speech; the silence was 
painful. 

It was trot and canter ; pushing, ever 
pushing us to our limit. Two, four, six 
hours ; sixty miles, and never ’ a drop of 
water to moisten our dry lips ; eighty miles 
since starting. I no longer felt the hot 
breath of the mare upon my hips ; often I 
heard her stumble. I was sorry for her, for 
a braver beast than the red bay filly I have 
never known. 

Water at last. A pool only, but oh, how 
welcome it was. There was a tremble at the 
flank of the bay filly, and thump, thump, be- 


130 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


hind the shoulder blade. I have seen over- 
ridden cow ponies, thus affected, fall dead, 
but there was glorious leather in that little 
mare. 

Standing there by the pool side, while Jack 
braved up the Senorita, that mare, her flanks 
quivering, her sides thumping, and her 
breath rasping through a throat already half 
paralyzed, took with me the pony oath, that 
‘'we would carry Jack and the lass to safety, 
or we would die trying. We can do no 
more than that, can we,” said the bay. 

Two hours of welcome rest, but how short 
they were. It was walk and trot again now; 
we kept the coulees, rising the ridges only 
where it could not be avoided. 

Jack, trim and alert as usual, fell back 
often now and kissed the little woman. Her 
seat was no longer steady and firm ; a pallor 
was upon her face, as was also a terror in 
her heart. Ten miles more behind us. The 
end was coming fast, and Jack, with those 
same steady brave eyes, often scanned the 
horizon behind us. 

I felt him give a start. As soon as I could 
I looked back along the way we had come. 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 131 

and I saw, maybe a mile distant, a strange 
figure, trotting, trotting, head low upon 
breast, following every bend of our trail. 

''Dearie, Old Toni comes ; stay here, I will 
go back and meet him V’ 

Jack walked swiftly back toward the 
approaching figure. There was a flash from 
Jack's hip, and Old Toni lay face downward 
in the salt grass. 

The red bay filly's breath came hard. Her 
pretty head drooped lower and lower, but 
with a final supreme efifort she tossed it high 
in the air, with something of her old time 
jaunty and coquettish look ; she champed the 
bit in her dry mouth, making the half-breed 
wheel sing; there was a bewildered and half 
scared look out of the glazing eyes, the head 
sank lower and lower still, until the swollen 
lips ground in the gravel, then the knees 
gave way. She had kept our pony oath. 

Even as Jack shifted the Senorita's light 
saddle to my back, we all heard the whistle 
of great black wings overhead, and shud- 
dered. 

It was walk now, I carrying the Senorita, 
who seemed to have shrunk to the measure 


132 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


of a child. Jack was afoot, still steady and 
erect, cheering us with brave and kindly 
words, telling us that from yonder divide he 
would show us the fort. He called me his 
brave pony; he called the senorita his heart 
and his life. He said: 

“Their horses have played out, and we 
will outwalk them.’’ 

But the Senorita replied: “No, dear, the 
Coiled Serpent horses do not play out, they 
are famous all over Chiuahua; my mare was 
an American. I will tell you how they are 
traveling; they are leading their best horses, 
and when they find old Toni’s — when they 
find old Toni’s body — they will mount their 
lead horses, and then they will come like a 
whirlwind.” 

“Whoa, Buck !” called Jack, then the little 
figure leaned down from the saddle. 

“A kiss, dear; we will die together, see?” 
and she half drew from her girdle a shining 
blade. Putting one finger tip on the hilt, 
Jack slowly pressed the blade back into its 
sheath. 

“Nay, nay, dear, we will not die; ride on, 
sweetheart.” 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


133 


There lay the blessed fort, a white splash 
on the yellow horizon ; a crimson spot 
above it. 

''My country's flag ; our country's flag. 
God bless it ! Ride on, dear." 

"Hold, Jack." 

I saw a swift shadow sweep over her sweet 
face. "They are coming. Jack." 

Sure enough, just mounting the bench on 
which we stood, were three horsemen. I 
saw the glitter of silver ornaments on saddle, 
bridle, rowels and hat band, and in the little 
humped up figure on the big black, I rec- 
ognized the old Senor Rodrigo. 

The three horsemen changed their course 
slightly on seeing us ; separated, leaving in- 
tervals between them, then they came at a 
leisurely canter, sure of their game. 

"Ride straight toward the fort, dearest, I 
will overtake you ; go." 

"Not so. Jack, I stay; I would die with 
you." 

"For God's sake, child, go ! If you stay, 
you ruin all." 

I turned and carried her over the crest of 
the hill out of sight. There, she flung her- 


134 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


self from my back, face downward in the 
rough grass, and drew her mantle about her 
head, and lay like one dead, awaiting the end. 
It came. 

My master scorned cover; I thought that 
foolish then; I still think so, but it was just 
like Jack. He advanced straight into their 
teeth ; there, straight and motionless; he 
awaited them, and. wh^n they came within 
hail, he threw up his left hand and called. 

“Would the Senors speak with me?’’ 

A rattle of pistol shots was his answer; 
leaden messengers of death- met in air ; two 
ponies galloped riderless and free. Truly it 
had been better for Valquez and Martinez 
had they not followed. The Old Don 
steadied the beautiful big black square to the 
front. 

“For God’s sake, Senor, don’t shoot! For 
her sake I would not harm thee!” called Jack. 

I shall never forget the look on the old 
man’s face; it seemed dwarfed and distorted 
with passion, haggard with hate, but never 
a trace of fear or forgiveness. 

“I’ll slay you both,” he hissed, through 





TWO PONIES GALLOPED 


RIDERLESS.” pagC 


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Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 137 

clenched teeth, and his steadily leveled pistol 
rang. 

I saw master wince as though hurt, but 
still, in even, passionless tones he spoke: 
^‘For her sake, then, take that.'' 

The big black, riderless now, galloped like 
the others, free across the plain. 

With mighty effort, tenderly, Jack raised 
the little Inez, and, with many a kiss on 
lips and cheek and hair he said : I'Ride fast 
to the fort, my love, give this to the com- 
manding officer, he is my brother ; he will 
care for you for my sake, and thine. I will 
rest here. I am tired, so tired," and my poor, 
stricken, dying master leaned heavily on my 
neck. 

The little woman sprang to the ground 
and, clasping Jack in her arms, replied: 

''Rest here, dear heart, rest thus, I am not 
tired at all ; Buck and you rest and sleep, I 
will guard you, and when you have rested, 
and it has grown cool, then together we will 
go to thy brother." 

He once more pressed the little form to 
his breast in a long and tender embrace, 
saying: "For the love you bear me, go, go 


138 Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 

quick; say to the captain, that at the great 
cottonwood, at the head of Wild Horse Draw, 
his brother lies ; that is all, go 

As he released her I saw. a crimson spot 
on the soft shirt he wore. I saw a look of 
understanding pass between them. Her face 
froze hard with a look of horror and agony;: 
it was whiter now than the face of one 
already dead. Without a word she sprang 
to the saddle. 

How I covered that nine miles I never 
could remember. My knees were cut and 
swollen, my dry lips bruised and bleeding, 
where, in my exhaustion, I had stumbled 
and fallen, but I remembered the bay filly 
and our pony oath, that kept me to my work,, 
and I went on and on, though blind and 
faint. 

She pressed the . packet into the hand of 
the sentry at the main gate. Loud and clear 
the sentry called, 

“Corporal of the guard, main gate.’' 

A squad of troopers, led by a stalwart 
young captain, swept past where I lay, half 
unconscious there beside the gate. They 
disappeared in a cloud of dust. I saw my 


IVLemoirs of a Cow Pony. 


139 


dear - master never more ; a few days later 
I saw the Senorita for the first time since we 
came. I had found a big bunch of fine 
guava grass, and my muzzle was deep down 
in this when I heard a voice behind me: 

^Tmck.’’ 

1 had no need to look, to know she was 
"there, for none other had the soft, tender, 
and sweet voice of the little Spaniard. 

That one spoken word of hers caused a 
rush of emotions which set me all a tremble; 
there flashed before me the scenes of that 
last dreadful day; the death of the gallant 
red bay filly; the naked Apache, face down- 
ward, dead, in the salt grass ; the three horses 
running riderless, their trappings ablaze with 
glittering ornaments, and then that last view 
of my master. The stricken look on his 
paling face, the effort to stand erect and 
speak steadily; the awful crimson spot, 
spreading, spreading, on the gallant breast. 

I raised my head slowly, to find it within 
dear arms, kisses raining on my neck and 
nose. I followed by her side, her arm around 
my neck. We came to a small plat of 
iground, fenced with white pickets, within 


140 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


which she threw herself upon a mound of 
fresh earth. Standing there at the gate I 
heard her sobs and moans. 

The moon rose over the divide, a blood 
red moon, casting a weird light over the 
ghostly stones, standing there in military 
array. I heard her voice, shaken and broken 
with sobs and lamentations : 

‘^Oh, my lover, my Jack, come back to 
me ! I am but a poor little weak woman 
who loves you, whose heart breaks for want 
of you. I cannot be brave and strong like 
you, Jack ! Is it bad for me to be weak and 
a coward, Jack? Come back. Jack, come 
back, and take me in your strong arms again ; 
let me lay this little tired head again on your 
dear breast. How foolish I am. You can- 
not come to me, can you. Jack? There was 
blood on your breast. I will come to thee ; 
God in heaven and all the saints forgive me 
what I do !” 

Slowly, there in the red moonlight, she 
arose, and with her angel’s face turned to 
the stars : 

“Jack, father, mother, I come !” 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 141 

I saw something flash there in the moon- 
light. The next day, close beside the one, 
another mound of fresh earth was heaped, 
there within the little plat behind the fort. 

Reveille sounds, but it does not awaken 
the dear dead sleepers beneath the twin 
mounds there upon the hill side. 


CHAPTER X. 

Anybody's Pony. 

I was anybody's pony now ; 
soldiers, women, children, 
anybody who wanted to, rode 
me whenever they wished. 
They called me ‘‘that old 
buckskin cow pony. 

This made me tired, and I 
concluded that I would run 
away with the first outfit I 
could find which looked at all 
favorable. One day there 
came drifting* past, a trail 
outfit which were moving 
about four thousand Mexican steers to the 
Northern ranges. First came a fringe of fast 
walking leaders, on each side of which rode 
a cowboy “pointing’' them in the direction 
they wished the herd to take, and these were 



142 



Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


143 


followed by a widening wedge of cattje, until 
the crush at the tail of the drive, then behind 
these came the mess wagon, and, following, 
came the pony herd. 

I knew that it would not do to join them 
during daylight, for they would cut me back, 
but I looked them over carefully and found 
them to be a fairish looking outfit, so I 
waited until night, then I took their trail. 
I hunted up the pony herd; quietly slipped 
in among them and made myself as incon- 
spicuous as possible while they were 
catching horses the next morning, but passed 
unnoticed. I traveled with them that day, 
I now knowing that I was safe, and I mixed 
in as though I belonged there. I had been 
discovered, however, and they said: 

'‘Rather a likely looking cow horse.” 

Next morning I was caught. They didn’t 
seem at all put out at finding me in the 
“cavy,” in fact, I have never known a cow 
outfit to be mad at finding that a good, sleek 
horse belonging to someone else had joined 
them. 

Several of the cow boys wanted to add 
me to their strings, and I was finally taken 


144 


Memoirs of = a Cow Pony. 


by an old fellow whose home was in Kansas 
City. He was the owner of the herd, but 
this was his first venture in cattle, and his 
first trip over the trail. He had one of the 
punchers *ride me a short distance, to see if 
I was gentle ; then he carefully climbed into 
my saddle. I say he ^'climbed'’ into the 
saddle, because he was so awkward about it. 

This is the way he did it. He seized my 
mane with one hand and the cantle with the 
other and slowly lifted himself up, the bridle 
reins all the time hanging to my knees. There 
wasn’t the least spring to his movements, 
and he nearly pulled my mane out every time 
he mounted me. Now everybody knows that 
is no way to mount a cow horse. Mounting 
in the way he did, he had to let loose of the 
cantle before he could get into the saddle. 
Just then, if I had wanted to, I could have 
thrown him over the mess wagon. I thought 
he would make a good boss,, though, iso I just 
grunted and stood still. Now a cowboy who 
understood his business would have taken the 
reins up taut, and would perhaps have taken 
hold of the cheek strap of my bridle with his 
left hand and the pommel with the right, and 



NEXT MORNING I WAS CAUGHT. page I43. 








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Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


147 


swung himself into the saddle with scarcely 
a particle of side draft. 

The old fellow was so afraid of me that 
he attempted no very active work. He was 
generally kind and agreeable, so I carried 
him the nicest I knew how, and we became, 
before we parted, great friends. 

This was the scratchingest outfit I ever 
worked with. It was just scratch, scratch, 
scratch, the livelong day. At first I didn’t 
know what the trouble was, but later I found 
out. My boss had in the wagon an enormous 
trunk, as big almost as a pony, and every 
evening he would get this out. The contents 
consisted of many suits of clothes, enough 
of everything, it seemed to me, for an entire 
outfit. He’d examine them carefully, and 
then whip and shake them as though he 
were trying to destroy them ; then he would 
change clothes; wrap the old one up tight, 
tie them, and place them back in the trunk. 
I noticed that the old fellow’s labors with the 
contents of the ^^old pie box,” as the cow 
punchers called it, excited among them the 
greatest mirth. 

The foreman’s name was Bruce. One 


148 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


day, riding beside him, my master said : 

“Bruce, (scratch) this alkali dust is some- 
thing awful; (scratch) it is getting into my 
very hide. ( Scratch. ) What is a fellow 
going to do about it?” 

Bruce was a big, good looking, quiet fel- 
low, whose loudest laugh was a silent smile. 
Now he didn’t even indulge in this, but so- 
berly answered : “Pick ’em ofif, — bile ’em.” 

I noticed that Bruce carried a smooth flat 
stick about a foot long and as he said this 
he reached up and thrust it down inside his 
shirt at the back of his neck and worked it 
about. After that my master carried a 
similar stick for the same purpose. As we 
put the slow miles to the southward of us, 
it was, every evening, whip, shake, pick, 
boil, until I came to imagine that I too itched 
and must do something. About this time 
we struck a. gumbo country, and as I had no 
hands with which to pick, and didn’t want 
to be boiled or whipped, and shaking did no 
good, I concluded that the best thing for me 
was to apply a good thick coat of gumbo 
plaster. A rain had recently fallen and the 
plaster was in good condition. 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 149 

I found a favorable spot and took a good 
wallow in the greasy, pasty stuflf, then when 
it had dried pretty well, I faithfully applied 
another coat. As a remedy against the as- 
saults of flies, mosquitoes and vermin gen- 
erally, I recommend gumbo, but it adds 
nothing to the beauty of a pony; it could not 
be called a beauty bath. 

When I came into the ropes the next 
morning, I didn’t look much like the sleek, 
smooth-coated Buck of the evening before, 
and the other ponies were laughing at me. 
When I heard the shouts of the punchers 
and saw the look on my master’s face, I had 
to laugh too. I looked ridiculous. They 
called me ‘/old rope tail,” because my mane 
and tail were just ropes of gumbo. 

My master was disgusted, and without a 
word he out with his knife and cut oflf the 
gumbo ropes. Had I known that such a re- 
sult would have happened, I should never 
have taken that bath, for I was very proud of 
my silver mane and tail; everybody said it 
was fine. My master declared he would not 
ride such a scandalous looking beast, and 
turned me over to one of the punchers. 


ISO 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


I felt pretty bad at losing my pretty mane 
and tail and at being turned down in the man- 
ner I was, but it came out all right in the end. 

Master then took for his mount a little 
deadhead, black, night herd horse. As he 
laboriously proceeded to mount to his saddle, 
the little black, not being used to that manner 
of mounting shied and I had the satisfaction 
of seeing the old gentleman get a good tum- 
ble. The pony had, in fact, done nothing- 
very wrong; he simply didn’t understand that 
way of mounting. Nothing, however, could 
convince the old man that the pony had not 
bucked. 

Pie wouldn’t ride a bucker and so he took 
me back again, and a few days later we came 
to the Platte River at Ogalalla, Nebraska. 

My master said that now he would curry 
me to a finish and he adopted a lazy man’s 
method of doing it, by riding me into the wat- 
er and came near drowning me ; then he 
found a swimming hole and there he wallowed 
me about utterly regardless of my desires or 
feelings. If he had loosened my cinches, I 
could have done better, but with. the cinches 
drawn tight it was a struggle to get breath 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 151 

enough inside me to keep me afloat. When 
I was thoroughly washed ofif I was allowed 
to come out and I both looked and felt bet- 
ter, except for the mangled mane and tail. I 
tried no more gumbo baths while I was with 
them. 

The old gentleman was an easy master. If 
ever he grew too frisky I had but to cut up a 
few capers and it was : ''Whoa, Buck ; now 
be a good pony. Buck.’’ And again I was al- 
lowed to choose my own gait. 

One evening soon after leaving the Platte 
I came near losing my life. The night herd- 
ers had taken the herd and were trying to bed 
them down, that is, bunching them in a cir- 
cle. There was one big red-spotted steer who 
seemed possessed of the spirit of some restless 
devil ; he would neither lie down himself or al- 
low the others to lie down, and whenever they 
attempted it, he would hook them into a state 
of agitated activity; then he would lead off, 
all the time bawling outrageously, just as 
though he smelled something which needed 
instant investigation by the entire herd. 

Of course, there are in every herd a few 
fool cattle, and those in this herd would set up 
a responsive bawling and promptly spike out 


152 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


after him. The nig^ht herders would, of 
course, promptly turn them back ; then old red- 
spot would walk straight through the center 
of the herd goring everything within reach 
of his long horns, and attempt to leave on the 
opposite side. Bruce had been standing beside 
master and I for some time watching the 
antics of the old rascal, but he finally became 
disgusted with old red spot, and said : 

''Let me take Buck and Til tie the old devil 
down.’’ 

He mounted me and quietly drove the big 
brute out of the herd, shook out his rope and 
gave me my head. I knew what was wanted, 
and although the big steer was a fast runner, 
I was soon alongside of him. I hugged close 
to him so that Bruce could lay his rope over 
his head, for I knew it was useless to try to 
throw the rope very far and get the noose 
spread wide enough to take in those immense 
horns. They measured more than six feet be- 
tween tips, I heard them say. 

Bruce was leaning forward in the saddle, 
just about to catch him when the nasty brute 
threw his head viciously around in front of 
me, his long left horn swept clear past my 
breast and caught me in the side and I felt 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


153 


it penetrate my body ; then I thought my time 
had come. Just then I had the signal from 
Bruce to go and I shot past that steer, the rope 
meanwhile encircling his neck and dropping 
down about his haunches. I knew just when 
the end of the rope would be reached and I 
knew that the proper thing for me to do was 
to stop instantly when - he was thrown, but 
I thought I was killed by the thrust of his 
horn. I was desperate. Instead of stopping 
I threw my whole weight, while running at 
full speed, upon the rope and I heard the big 
brute strike the ground with a grunt and also 
heard the sound of breaking bones. Bruce 
and I both knew that something had happened, 
and he threw the rope free of my saddle, 
something he would not have done had he not 
known that the animal was injured. There 
old red-spot lay, with ends reversed, his legs 
rigid and quivering. I had turned him com- 
pletely over, and the neck, held awry by the 
long horns, was broken.* 

I was led away into a watered coulee and 
turned loose ; turned loose to live or die, as the 
fates might determine, but my ugly wound 

*Note. — The head of this mighty horned steer 
may be seen in the Butte County Bank at Belle 
Fourche, S. D. 


154 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


was first smeared over with “dope/’ which was 
nothing but axle grease. 

Some one said that I would die, but Bruce 
remarked : “Not much, you don’t kill a buck- 
skin cow horse that easy,” and Bruce was 
right. 

It almost broke my heart to see the outfit 
move on next morning. I made a painful ef- 
fort to follow, but the blood gushed from the 
nasty hole in my side, and I was so weak I 
had .to lie down. Thousands of blue bottle 
flies swarmed and buzzed around me. Coyotes 
and hoboes coolly looked me over, doubtless 
counting the days until they would devour me. 
I was, however, a big, strong pony and had 
often heard men say that I had a constitution 
of iron. I withstood the pain and the weaken- 
ing eflfects of my hurt and slowly grew better. 

Every day I wallowed in the mud, plaster- 
ing the wound over; it healed rapidly under 
this treatment, and in a few weeks I was able 
to wander about and defy the impatient 
wolves. 

They had waited too long. I was still sad 
and lonesome, and the thought that I was 
again “nobody’s pony” hurt me more than 
my wound. 



CHAPTER XL 
A Faithful Dog. 

It would seem that a pony who had nothing 
to do and plenty to eat and drink ought to be 
satisfied, but it is not so. After a pony has 
been worked for years, association more or 
less closely with men becomes a necessity with 
him, and without the sight of his two-legged 
friends, he pines and is dissatisfied. 

Having recovered so far as to enable me 
to hobble about, I had several times gone to 
the top of a high hill near where I had been 
stopping, and had looked the country over. I 
had seen no signs of people, and had about 


155 



156 Memoirs of a Cow Poxy. 

made up my mind to emigrate, when I was 
overjoyed one morning to see a man working 
over the sparse remains of old red-spot. I at 
once made my slow way up where he was, and 
found that he was preparing the decayed car- 
cass for wolf bait. He was piercing small 
holes in the carcass here and there, into which 
he was pricking little crystals which he car- 
ried in a bottle, and I noticed that he was care- 
ful not to touch the meat with his hands. 
When he had finished he dragged parts of the 
body about where his feet had been, and finally 
down to the water. 

After he had finished, he came and looked 
me over carefully, and in the kindest and gen- 
tlest manner possible, washed and dressed my 
wound. This was the first time the wound had 
been dressed since I was hurt, and it felt vast- 
ly better when he had finished. He then rode 
away. The next day he came again, and after 
dressing my wound, plastered it all over with 
a black, sticky stuff which he called tar. He 
said it was an outrage to leave a pony in the 
condition I was. 

Under this treatment I grew rapidly better, 
and was soon able to travel, slowly, of course. 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


157 


but still so well that he led me away to his 
camp, which was not much of a camp, for 
it consisted of only a rickety wagon, a half- 
dozen ponies, guns, pistols, a few camp equip- 
ments, a little grub and a lot of snarling, hun- 
gry dogs. He also had a few wolf pelts 
stretched out, curing. 

The man was a wolfer. His name was 
‘^Sam the Wolfer,'’^ or for short, ^^Wolfer 
Sam.'' I found his ponies an amiable lot and 
I soon made friends with them, and had a 
pretty good time for the next month or two, 
until I was well again. Wolfer Sam now be- 
gan riding me on his rounds visiting his bait 
and traps, and it was on one of these trips 
that the incident happened which I am about 
to relate, and which gave me a much higher 
•opinion of dogs than I had before. 

We left camp about daylight, followed by 
one of the dogs, and had visited the last trap, 
which was some twenty miles from camp. We 
were about to return, when a big timber wolf 
sprang up and lumbered away across the 
prairie. I thought from the way the animal 
ran that it had eaten poison and I think Wolf- 
er Sam thought the same. He immediately 


158 Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 

gave chase. If the wolf had eaten poison, it 
had not yet taken effect sufficiently to make it 
stiff or to retard its speed, for it gave me a 
hard chase, but I was drawing up on it when, 
as ill luck would have it, it headed across a 
prairie dog town. I knew the danger of run- 
ning across this, as the footing was treacher- 
ous, and at the speed I was going I had but 
little time to pick places for my feet. I believe, 
however, that I could have gotten across all 
right if Wolfer Sam had given me my head, 
but' he jerked me off my gait; my fore feet 
broke through a thin crust, and down I went. 

I was stunned and bruised, but I scrambled 
to my feet only to find the wolfer stretched 
out, stunned but cursing, one leg all awry. 
The dog was standing over him, whining and 
licking his hands and face. 

The situation was serious. That leg re- 
fused to get into its normal position, and there 
was no help anywhere within many miles and 
no one to send for it if it had been closer. 
Wolfer Sam dragged himself over to where 
I stood, but the pain was so great that he did 
not try to mount me. 

The day wore slowly away with no change 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 159 

in the situation nor prospect of help. Night 
came on, the greater part of which was con- 
sumed by Sam in dragging himself to a pool 
of water which a recent rain had left on the 
surface. Morning came, but Wolfer Sam, 
worn out with pain and cursing, slept. I was 
glad of that. The dog, however, was gone. 

As for myself, I was determined to stay 
by him to the end, and I thought it was close 
at hand, but that pestiferous dog. Pretending 
to feel so bad, whining so piteously, kissing 
the face and hands of his master, then going 
away as soon as darkness came. I pictured 
him at camp, rustling in the old man's chuck 
box for grub. 

I did that dog a great injustice, and I apolo- 
gize to him, for about nine o’clock that morn- 
ing he returned. He was gaunt, and lame, and 
hungry looking; his feet were sore and full 
of cactus thorns; he made his painful way to 
his prostrate master and laid in his hand a 
hunk of bread, about half a loaf, and although 
it was saturated with the dog’s saliva, the way 
that man ate it was a sight. 

I want to be just to Wolfer Sam, also. 
There were many good things about him. He 


i6o Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 

gave the dog an even half of the bread, then 
put his arms about that dog's neck and kissed 
him and cried over him. The faithful animal 
would have put his arms about his master if 
he had arms, but as he had none he just licked 
the old man's face and hands and whined. I 
suppose that that is a dog's way of kissing. 

I — but what is the use of telling what I did. 
I had troubles plenty of my own. My saddle 
had been cinched very tight and it was burning 
my back, and seemed eating into my very 
vitals. I started to gnaw the cinch, but I 
thought ‘‘suppose master should want to mount 
me, what then?" I determined to bear the 
pain, even though it killed me. 

Master and dog slept. The dog's head pil- 
lowed on his master's breast. Thus those two 
unconscious of their own and my misery, lay 
hour after hour, sleeping. The hot sun beat 
down on them, birds twittered and sung while 
I stood guard, wondering what the final would 
be. At length the dog awoke, drank his fill, 
wallowed in the pool and left. 

It was evening when he returned, and he was 
closely followed by two cow punchers. They 
came from a line riders' camp about twenty 


% 

Memoirs of a Cow Pony. i6i 

miles distant, and I heard them say that when 
the dog first came to their camp, they recog- 
nized him as belonging to the wolfer, and see- 
ing his famished condition, they gave him a 
chunk of bread, which, instead of eating, he 
took in his mouth and made off in the direction 
from which they had seen him come. This was 
the bread which the faithful animal brought, 
untasted by himself, to his suffering master. 
When he returned the second time, vastly to 
their surprise, he begged them by every dumb 
pleading of which he was capable, to follow, 
and at length, their curiosity being aroused, 
they saddled and followed. 

The two examined the old wolfer, said his 
hip was dislocated, and that it must be pulled 
back into place. Old Sam said : 

''Go ahead and pull the d — thing back into 
place or pull it off. I don’t care a cuss which.” 

One held the body while the other pulled on 
the leg, but it was of no use; they were not 
strong enough, then one of them said : 

"Look’e here. Old Hobo, down in Arizona, 
I saw a Navajo Injun’s leg pulled into place 
with a horse ; I got to do the same with yourn. 
No bucking, now, we’ve got the cinch on you.” 


i 62 


Memoirs of a Cqw Pony. 


Wolfer Sam replied: ‘'All right, pull the 
dammed thing back or pull it off. Hitch on 
Buck.’’ 

Now, I didn’t want to do this job at all; it 
looked brutal to me and I started to leave, but 
the old fellow yelled at me to stop and, of 
course, I did so. I then saw that I was in for 
it, but I made up my mind that Pd pull mighty 
slow and easy, for I was afraid I would actu- 
ally pull his leg off, and I didn’t want to do 
that. 

They dragged the old man up to a box eld- 
er sapling and tied, by passing a rope around 
his breast under the arms, his body to that. 
They then attached a rope to the displaced 
leg; one of them mounted me, took a hitch on 
the pommel of my saddle exactly as though he 
were going to pull a heifer out- of a mud hole, 
and : 

“Steady now. Buck.” 

The other man sat down on the injured hip. 
Well, I did hate to pull, but I had to do it; I 
just leaned forward on the rope, harder and 
yet a little harder, then there was a soft sound 
as the bone sprang into the socket. The man 
at the hip yelled “Stop !” and the queerest sur- 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 163 

gical operation I ever heard df was successful- 
ly accomplished. 

I think that it must have hurt the old wolfer 
pretty bad, for while I was pulling, tough and 
gritty as he was, he let out some awful blood- 
curdling yells. He swore heM kill the whole 
lot of us if he lived. After the job was done, 
however, and he was told that it was back in 
place and that he would get well, I saw 
a faint smile on the white old face. The 
question then was how to get the patient 
to camp. But a little thing like that donh 
bother a cow puncher or a wolfer very long, 
so they just rigged a travois about m.e, bound 
the old cripple on firmly and we slowly went 
to camp. 

It was a hard time Wolfer Sam had for 
the next few weeks. He refused to leave his 
own camp, and was unable to take care of 
himself. His rescuers fixed him up as com- 
fortably as they could, brought him water and 
fire wood, placed his grub and provisions as 
convenient as possible, and left him to his 
fate. Every few days they would call and 
leave a few days’ provisions and depart again. 
His hurt, however, gradually grew better and 


164 Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 

in the course of a few weeks with the aid of 
crutches and canes, he was able to hobble 
about. 

Of course, he could no longer put out his 
traps or bait and he grew restless and deter- 
mined to move on. With the greatest effort 
he managed to pile his few belongings into 
the old wagon and hitch up a team, then he hit 
the trail, and headed for the Black Hills, where 
he said he would market his pelts and have a 
good time. 

He was a queer old chap, this old wolfer, 
and seemed always dreaming of something 
in the past. He was kind to his dogs and pon- 
ies and shared with them the good things 
which came his way; but it was few enough 
of those which make the lives of people desir- 
able which the old man had. He lived, while 
I was with him, almost entirely on flapjacks 
and jack rabbits. If he had but two flapjacks 
he gave one of them to the pups. But the 
trails leading to the old man’s heart were broad 
and straight, and to one in need he would give 
his dearest possessions. His unbounded gener- 
osity was well illustrated when, one day, near 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 165 

Jenny's Stockade, we met a brother wolfer 
from the north. 

From the look of the outfit he was down on 
his luck, was this new wolfer. His ponies 
were poor, his wagon wabbly and ancient; his 
skin was weather-beaten and tanned to the 
color of an old saddle. By his side, on the 
springless seat, was his wife, a young old wo- 
man, whose face even here, under these dis- 
couraging circumstances, showed traces of out- 
lived beauty. It was haggard from care, grief 
and want. Behind them under the flapping 
and torn wagon cover, projected the shocky 
heads of children, a full half-dozen of them, I 
think. , 

The wagons, as they reeled alongside, slowly 
came to a full stop, and the following dialogue 
took place : 

“Howdy, stranger?" 

“Howdy." 

“Wolfin'?" 

“Yep. Whar' ye bin? What luck?" 

“Bin up on the 101 range. Hard luck; no 
wolves, nothin' but coyotes. Cow boys killed 
all my dogs." 

“The devil they did !" 


i66 Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 

My master had his dogs tied in a string be- 
hind the wagon, to save them from injuring 
their feet running through the cacti. He now 
slowly and painfully climbed out of the wagon, 
and going to his rearmost dog, a fine tan bitch, 
took his skinning knife from his belt and de- 
liberately cut the dog from the string, then 
handing the animal up to the stranger from 
the 101 range, said: 

. ^‘1 pity ye if yeVe lost yer dogs. Pll give 
ye this ’un for a start.’’ 

The stranger took the tan brute promptly, 
placed her between his legs, and as he stroked 
her head replied : 

‘'Thankee, stranger, thankee. I shore did 
have bad luck up thar. One of my ponies died 
and another got locoed yesterday, and is back 
there at the stockade, crazy as a bed bug.” 

It was evident that the forlorn looks of the 
entire outfit, the loss of the dogs and pony,, 
touched the heart of my master, for he cut off 
from the string a couple more dogs, and toss- 
ing them in among the children, where they 
were promptly seized and secured, said : 

“You sure did have hard luck. Take these.” 

“Yes, that’s so. I’ve had many a hard knock 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 167' 

and Pve tried to stand up under it like a man 
.and a wolfer,s but I was shore nigh knocked 
oflfn my pins up thar. You see one of the 
kids done tuk sick ; the old woman and I 
missed and nussed her, but it done no good.’’ 

He looked away off the shimmery alkali 
plains ; his lips moved but he did not finish the 
sentence. His wife, the hard lines on her 
face softening, and dew coming in her eyes, 
laid her hand on his brown, dirty and rough 
ones, and gently spoke : 

'‘Don’t feel like that, Jared, don’t. We 
done all we could for her. It was the Lord’s 
will.” 

"We done all we could for her, wife, shore 
we did. We guv her nothing but sage tea to 
drink all the time she was sick, but she just 
moaned like the wind through the limbs of a 
dead cottonwood, and pined and withered like, 
and at last ” 

He gulped and swallowed, a moment, and 
then resumed: 

"Well, we buried her all alone there, atop 
of Agate Hill; but somehow I can’t help but 
think that the little thing still misses us an’ 
the pups.’^ 


1 68 Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 

By this time tears had washed furrows down 
through the accumulation of dust and grime 
on my master’s face, and with a quick stroke 
of his knife he severed the cord which con- 
nected his three remaining dogs to the axle- 
tree of the wagon, and placing it in the hands 
of one of the kids, said, broken and husky like : 

‘'Take ’em; take ’em. Ye’re more’n wel- 
come to ’em. Take good care ’o that tan bitch ; 
she’ll give ye a good start in life. She runs by 
sight, an’ she’ll tackle anythin’ that wears 
h’ar, an’ them thar hounds’ll chew ’em up.” 

Many a time have I, when disheartened and 
discouraged, had my heart and courage re- 
stored by kind words and a good feed of oats, 
and as I saw the faces of these unfortunates 
light up at this totally unexpected accession of 
wealth, I thought: “Is there, after all, so 
great a gulf between ponies and men?” 

As the wagons rolled apart, I heard the thin 
quavering voice of the woman calling after us : 
“The good Lord’ll reward ye, stranger, for 
yere goodness to us.” 

Near Jennie’s stockade,, sure enough, we 
found the locoed pony. He was no longer 
crazy ; he was dead. 


CHAPTER XIL 

How WoLFER Sam Painted Deadwood Red. 

We reached Deadwood after 
a hard trip over stony hills, 
tired, hungry and discouraged. 
Master’s supply of jack rab- 
bits was exhausted and he had 
been living on flapjacks 
straight. At the top of the 
hill above the famous town, 
which was strung out in the 
canon away below us, he stop- 
ped and took a good long look, 
hungering not only after grub, 
but also what he called ''the 
flesh pots.” He said, speak- 
ing to himself : 

"Damme if I don’t paint the old town red ; 
that is, if the pelts hold out.” 

W e made camp at the lower end of the town, 



169 


170 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


then he started us ponies off up the side of 
the canon. Glad enough we were to get away,- 
for the noise below was something dreadful. 
I have seen a thousand calves taken from their 
mothers at once, and have heard every one of 
the two thousand bawling until it seemed that 
they surely must split their throats, but I have 
never heard any noises equal to the uproar 
there in that canon. 

Railroad trains were rolling up and down,, 
whistling constantly; smelters and mills ham- 
mered, pounded and roared until they drove us 
ponies nearly crazy. We rapidly made our 
way over a hill and down into a long, low, nar- 
row, park-like place, where we found good 
feed, and where the sounds were broken and 
mellowed. When I was at the top of the hill, 
I looked back and saw our master with a great 
pack of pelts on his back, starting up town, 
where he was intending to sell them, after 
which, as he had said, he was going to paint 
the town red. 

The next afternoon I saw, approaching, a 
gentleman who wore a blue suit and a star 
upon his breast, and he was leading a wabbly 
specimen of humanity, in whom it was difficult 
to recognize master. His clothes hung in tat- 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony, 171 

ters from bis lank figure ; his face was bruised, 
battered and slashed ; one eye was closed, and 
about his entire person was a look of utter dis- 
reputableness and dilapidation. He leaned 
heavily against my shoulder, his arms about 
my neck, and I felt the unstrung figure trem- 
bling. In a weak and shaky voice he said : 

“Buck, don’t try to paint this town ; it can’t 
be done ; I tried it to a finish. I’m a pretty 
tough old knot, but just look at me now. No, 
don’t look at me, I don’t think I look very 
well. I had a good time, though^ Buck, yes I 
did, until my skin money gave out, and then 
it was bifif, bang, and the stamp mill; I think 
they must have run me through one of their 
durned mills about three times, and when I 
was done to a turn, along comes this fellow 
and toted me ofif to the calaboza, and he says 
I must pay a fine or work on the rock pile. I 
can’t work, no I can’t, can I Buck?” 

The. officer, a tall, slender, nice-looking man, 
stood listening, evidently sympathizing with 
Sam, whose distress touched even his heart. 
His sympathy was wasted however, for Sam 
turned on him. 

“Burn ye, what ye looking so sober about? 
Is your pardner dead? Give me a lift.” 


172 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


He helped the old man to mount me, and we 
started up town. 

We entered Lower Main street. Here the 
sidewalks were crowded by those who came 
forth to jeer at my fallen master; white, 
brown, red and black w^ere represented in the 
motley gathering. Japanese, Chinese, Indian 
and white women, and mixed bloods of all 
these races, poured from the hovels which' 
lined the street. From the looks and the talk 
of the motley array, I thought the street right- 
ly named, the Main street, leading, however, 
down to perdition. 

The old fellow sat uncertainly on my back, 
and it required care on my part that he did not 
fall off. He gave no heed to the gathering 
on the sidewalks, but said to me : 

''Buck, this is the bad-lands, no, not the 
kind of bad-lands you know, not God's bad- 
lands, but the devil's. Your bad-lands may 
kill a pony, and his rider, too, but they die 
clean-souled and self-respecting ; but these 
human bad-lands kill the soul as well as the 
body. Steady, Buck, steady, be careful, don't 
let those hackmen drive against us ; I don't 
seem to see very well to-day, old boy; every- 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


173 


thing is red, red like the bloods of the fools 
they murder here, and it has gotten into my 
brain; it is the paint, yes it is the paint I 
smeared the street with ; it has colored my soul 
and is burning in my head ; I can’t see you, 
Buck ; whoa, steady I say. Pm not well. Buck ; 
I guess this is the end of my trail. Pll not 
paint any more, nor wolf either ; it’s dark, 
dark; good-bye, good-bye. I’m ” 

The old hands clutched at my mane. He 
lay forward upon my neck and then rolled 
heavily and unresistingly to the cobble-stone 
ballasted street. A crowd quickly gathered 
about the body ; words of sympathy were 
plenty. He was thought to be dead. One said 
''apoplexy” ; another said "heart disease.” That 
policeman, however, knew a thing or two. He 
said: 

"Give him a drink.” 

Instantly a dozen hands flew to as many 
hip pockets. Now, down on the border where 
I had been raised, such a movement meant 
trouble, and instinctively I shrunk back. In- 
stead, however, of a dozen guns being pro- 
duced, each hand drew forth a black bottle. 

I saw Old Wolfer’s willing* lips encircle the 


174 


Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 


neck of a bottle, I saw the throat action of 
swallowing, I saw out of his well eye an ap- 
preciative wink, and I knew he would live to 
paint other towns red. 

The next morning I was owned by a fat, 
red-faced, big-bellied butcher, and I was taken 
by a boy, who rode me delivering meat to the 
butcher’s customers. 

Of all the work I ever did, this was the 
worst. It was canter, canter the livelong day ; 
over the stony streets, up the. sides of the hills, 
where it was so steep that I could scarcely 
scramble, then slide down, but ever under the 
whip. It was many a' hard jolt I gave that 
boy, but he was a wiry little fellow and never 
complained. 

I wanted a change of scene and labor. How 
to get it I didn’t exactly know, but I thought 
that I would try and attract the attention of 
some one who would buy me, and when I was 
around where men were gathered I showed 
off all my prettiest gaits ; I arched my neck, 
tossed my head, and champed the bit ; I single- 
footed, paced, trotted square and cantered, at 
the will and pleasure of that kid. 

I had noticed a rather respectable looking 





MY NEW MASTER. 







Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 177 

/gentleman watching me, and when he called 
at the market and asked to ride me around the 
block, I was not surprised and I gave him the 
nicest ride I knew how. He bought me. 

My new master rode me out to his horse 
ranch, and branded upon me the connected TU 
brand. Two years have passed since then, and 
they have been the happiest years of my life. 

I now hear men say : ‘^Foor Buck, he is grow- 
ing old.’’ 

What is it to grow old? Is it white hairs 
among the yellow? Is it shortness of wind- 
,and dimness of sight? Is it stiffness of mus- 
cles and shrinking of frame? If these be evi- 
dences of approaching old age, then, indeed, 
am I growing old. If these be the only com- 
pensations for my fourteen years of faithful 
labor for my many masters, then I may well 
say that my life has been unfruitful of re- 
wards. 

Nay, nay, growing old is not these alone. 
What, then, is it to grow old? It is to gain 
strength to trample under foot passion and 
hate, fear and frivolity. It is to grow generous 
.and just; thoughtful of the rights and com- 
fort of one’s mates and masters, and charitable 


1/8 Memoirs of a Cow Pony. 

in one’s judgments of their vices and weak- 
nesses. It is to broaden, and grow in love of 
pony-kind and mankind, with tears for the 
sad and hopeful smiles and words of encour- 
agement for the broken-hearted and despond- 
ent. 

It is courage, ever courage, never despair, 
when storms hide the trail and bewilder the 
senses and all beyond is hidden under a raven’s 
wing. It is to find the heart stronger ; it is to 
have the ability to look forward to the end 
without a sigh or a shrinking; it is to calmly 
and without fear, travel down the trail, at the 
end of which all the friends of all the years 
await the coming of wearly old pony, and 
weary old master. 

And the end, what is it? — REST. 

And so, dear pony, and dear master, touch 
noses, shake hands with the grim, old world, 
and smile. 


The End. 



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